Angel of Mute
by Froody
Summary: Just to add injury to insult, after discovering Raoul and Christine swearing their eternal love to one another, the phantom manages to lose his voice. This prompts ridicule and unpredictable plot changes. Mainly movie, some Leroux.
1. It Begins

**(A/N: Hello! This is my very first Phantom of the Opera phic, so it's very exciting. Now, I could have actually attempted to use whatever writing skills I could dredge up to write something of deep profound…ness, but unfortunately, this came out instead! This is just an introduction to a phic that will rewrite the path of the story itself. Not well, but hopefully humorously. :))**

It was a dark and stormy night, not that you could tell all the way underground in the Phantom's lair. Erik was experiencing the same dim quality of light he regularly enjoyed; however, there was doubtless a very stormy atmosphere present in the cavernous underground depths, the clouds hanging lowest over a heavily cloaked, hunched figure sitting at his organ.

Erik had lost his voice.

How could this happen, an observer may have asked, shocked and dismayed by this plot point. As plaintively as some would have wept over this spectacle, none was more upset than the Phantom himself, his naturally distorted brow furrowing so intensely that for a few moments his skin had taken on the unmistakable look of a passionfruit.

La Carlotta would be screeching with joy at this fairly ironic situation, had she known, and of course, had her pride (and voice) had sufficient time to recover. For it was only two days since that pivotal performance where the Phantom had really let his presence be known, two long, suffering, heart-wrenching days since Erik had discovered his Christine, his pure, innocent, trusting Christine in the arms of a foppish Viscomte!

It was the chilly weather he'd immersed himself in while on the Opera House's roof, undoubtedly, which caused this untimely disaster. And it certainly didn't help that he'd spent the next several hours crouched at the top of a statue, deeply inhaling icy gasps of wind in order to shout himself hoarse at the injustice of life. And in his favourite, open, ruffled shirt…

The pounding rain could be heard all the way from the deserted streets outside. As it was joined by its good friend hail, the Phantom slowly began to bash his head against the keys of the organ. Being the musical genius he undoubtedly was, however, instead of a violent clashing of notes there came a beautiful melody that would have made Mozart cry. Cry in a good way, that is. A good, jealous way. Finally, having made a large but barely noticeable dent in his favourite mask, Erik leapt to his feet and shouted, "Even the Heavens weep for Erik!"

Unfortunately, all that the pitiful Phantom heard spout from his mouth was the rasping of an unfit fifty-year-old asthmatic, having just completed a water aerobics session. Or the rasp of a throat badly infected with laryngitis.

Erik clutched at his throat and rolled his eyes in despair. How on Earth was he supposed to woo Christine back to his desperate arms if he could not even sing for her? Angels did not lose their voices! Even though it was almost certain that Christine had unmasked his Angel disguise and finally discovered the (pretty obvious) truth, Erik didn't want to take any chances with the one trump card he'd managed to procure in this whole affair. Well, the one trump card apart from his wardrobe of endless ruffled shirts missing buttons in all the right places. Not to mention the tight pants, sexy mask and ravishing wig… but that's beside the point. No, his main advantage had been his entrancing, intoxicating voice, and now even that had abandoned him.

The man reluctantly plopped himself back down at his organ and stared into space despondently. What was he to do? His only good quality, the one talent that had saved him from eternal loneliness and indifference was his voice, the miraculous instrument given to him by God himself, probably in a guilty attempt to make up for the horror of his face.

As he sat and glared at the music in front of him, the notes blurring to become the teensy black dots of absolutely no meaning known to any reluctant musician, he had a sudden idea. A rather obvious idea, considering his current position.

"Of course!" He whispered, enthusiastically. "I'll finish the opera! By the time it's completed, my voice will have to have returned! And then… Christine will be mine! Mwah ha HACK HACK!"

And with that, he collapsed upon the floor and merely gave a weak (yet intense) smile to convey his excitement.


	2. Siilent Niiiight

**(A/N: Sorry for the loooong wait, but I hope this will please you enough once you've finally remembered what on earth is going on! Ah, I love humour… Please review if you like, or if you think I'm an aimless hack, I really have to know. And my brother would like to prove me wrong on the hack thing. And I would really really like to prove me right. So REVIEW!**

**Fiona OUT.)**

Six months had passed slowly, and silently. Silently, that is, if the daily bashings at the organ were ignored. Not that it was easy to ignore these incensed chords; the Phantom grew only angrier as time passed by without a whisper passing his stubborn larynx. The poor organ was the sole recipient of his frustration, and had eventually, whimpering in submission, flattened itself slightly, maybe seeking help in the form of an organ tuner- but we shall never know for sure.

And so not only had his voice abandoned him, but his organ, and his will to live itself. For music was his passion, his source of connection with a higher being; it was his bloody religion, for heaven's sake, and it had apparently just decided to pop out for a tea break. Never mind him. Or his sanity. The only thing that kept him going these days was the hope of his voice, and Christine, returning to him. But until then….

_Bet Fauré never has to deal with crap like this,_ he thought ominously. _Bloody Romantics._ His black mood only deepened as he thought sourly of the well-known French composer and all the glory that he, Erik, a far better composer than Fauré could ever even sniff at, could never hope to enjoy. He kept silently muttering these petty grumblings to himself as he slowly, reluctantly, began to unfurl a mysterious black curtain.

This curtain, situated in the same dark room as the organ, hid a small area, a broom closet if you will. Empty of brooms for some time now, after Erik had quite abandoned the notion of entertaining guests, or going to Hogwarts in a fairly cringe-worthy cross-over move, it now held an object of much greater mystery and intrigue. But more of that later.

One tug away from finally revealing to the anxious and mesmerized viewers what secret treasures lay beyond its filmy folds, the Phantom stopped dead. He suddenly realised something utterly devastating to his cold, impersonal self-view- maybe _he_ was becoming a Romantic…

_Becoming?_ He snorted. He had been a fool for love since the day Christine had finally turned sixteen, and started wearing that intoxicating perfume, _Eau de Caverne. _His self-respect examined the evidence, packed its suitcases and left to join its novelised other, the self-respect of the cold-blooded, insane killer of Leroux's Erik.

Disheartened somewhat by this unsavoury realisation, the erstwhile angel of music grabbed the curtain and ripped it off its rod, the impatience to commence his magnificent plan overcoming his mortal fear of dust mites.

Roughly grabbing what lay inside, he turned on his heel and stormed out of the room, down to the shore, jumped magnificently into the waiting boat and rowed himself strongly around the corner, out of sight in less than a breathless minute. For tonight was the night; it was New Year's Eve, and the time had come to put his first and final performance into action.

Five minutes later he rowed red-cheeked (only one cheek visibly red, of course) back around the corner, stumbled out of the boat and ran back into the organ room, hurriedly seizing the score for his opera.

Slightly late, but still fashionably, not so much so as to be rude, the Phantom stood behind the door near the top of the staircase leading down to the grand ballroom of the Opera Populaire, waiting for the right moment to make his appearance. He brushed his white-gloved hands down the front of his bright red jacket, unconsciously straightening and preening. It was all right for a man to be slightly nervous, wasn't it, especially if he was to be introducing himself to a crowd of people for the very first time? He had even donned his favourite black mask as a kind of security blanket, and printed the words "Red Death" across the back of his jacket, in case people were confused as to what to call him. The long, menacing-looking fencing sword was merely a decoration, the icing on the cake of his outfit, if you will.

Erik took a deep breath, and swung open the door, his unconventional entrance positively reeking of malodorous intent and vile intentions.

No-one noticed. The oddly-apparelled couples tittered loudly as they swung across the ballroom floor, gossipping and laughing as they enjoyed the foolish atmosphere of the masquerade ball.

He cleared his throat. A man glanced in his direction but was quickly distracted by the sight of an ample-bosomed female.

Erik stamped his sexy leather boot in frustration. This was _not _how he had planned his grand entrance. _A voice, a voice, my bloody thousands of magical, waterproof candles for a voice!_ He eventually decided to try again, and walked back out the door, coolly collected himself, and strutted back to the top of the stairs, slamming the door for good measure and drawing upon his deep reserves of intimidating aura.

Still no-one noticed. He sighed and went back to collect the set of bongo drums he had procured beforehand, from behind the black curtains. He had hoped it would not come to this.

Bongo drums are not often noted for their rapturous musical qualities, but aside from rupturing, they almost always prove infallible, a property that the Phantom, during this rough and testing period, thoroughly respected. Being the musical genius that he was, he meant to make the drums sing in the way that he used to, filled with passion and beauty.

Filled with a sudden self-confidence, he straightened to his normal formidable height, clasped the bongos (menacingly) to his chest, and flung open the door for the third time that evening. He walked calmly to the top of the staircase, and then, throwing up his arms melodramatically, brought them crashing down upon the animal skins for a rousing rhythm of wrath.

The drums had the desired affect: everyone turned in alarm at the noisy clamour, and stared in amazement at this strange fellow at the top of the stairs dressed all in red. Nobody seemed to realise who this masked marauder was- most of them being masked marauders themselves, this evening, dressed in outlandish costumes of varying hilarity and vulgarity.

The Phantom sighed in frustration from behind his copious layers of eyeliner, and whirled around in one fluid motion that riveted the eyes of his enraptured audience. He jutted one gloved finger agitatedly at the words marking his back: _Red Death_. A murmur began amongst the watching crowds.

"I think this must be some odd form of charades, darling," Raoul muttered, mystified, to the horror-struck Christine beside him. She took a moment from her aghast expression to quickly roll her eyes at her betrothed's stupidity, and then reassumed her shocked position.

"It's the Phantom of the Opera!" Meg shouted excitedly, hiding safely away from his view behind Piangi's considerable bulk.

The girl had no way of knowing that she had saved them all from an untimely death, for the Phantom had been growing annoyed indeed by the collective ignorance in the room.


	3. Lord of the Dance

**(A/N: Hey guys, this chapter's slightly shorter than the others have been, and hopefully will be, but hope you're enjoying the story so far! This chapter happens to be the beginning of even crazier and more extreme storylines, so have fun imagining this scene actually happening! I did. He he.)**

An outbreak of whispers broke out, as well as a considerable number of whimpers, mostly emitted from the quivering forms of the two miserly managers. Erik silenced them all with another rumble on his bongos, and gazed out menacingly upon the breathless crowd.

This had been just about where his plan had ended. He hadn't bothered to consider the possibility that his plan could actually work whilst formulating it, sure that he'd be laughed out of the Opera House long before he could go anywhere with his desperately odd, and oddly desperate actions.

He paused, prolonging the aching silence, gloves hanging just above the surface of the drums. Suddenly something caught his eye, something rather infuriating: not only was his angel on the arm of that blasted fop, but this fop was taking the liberty of _talking _to Christine. Erik was filled with a mad jealousy he had seldom been filled with before.

It was this jealousy, and purely this insane jealousy, that enabled this next, more doubtful move to succeed.

From behind his mask, Erik's right eye slowly twitched- once, and again, and a third time. The audience hung on each eye spasm, and gasped silently as one, mesmerized by the burning intensity flaring from the Phantom's eyes. He narrowed his eyes slightly, and jolted his head half an inch to the right. The audience reciprocated this action instinctively. Raoul jutted his head a half metre to the left by mistake, but no-one seemed to notice (or care.)

The Phantom repeated his actions, and watched, intrigued, as the crowd began to follow his actions, and continue them, like an odd version of the Nut Bush with less kicking and more twitching.

The smallest of smiles began to form on Erik's face as he realised that his plan was going to work, and brimming with the joy and cockiness that came with success, upped the tempo.

_Twitch twitch twitch_

_Jut_

_Jut_

_Twitch twitch twitch_

_Jut _

_Jut_

_Twitch twitch twitch_

Suddenly, with little warning, he threw back his shoulders and shimmied, provoking volleys of catcalls from the female members of the audience, and Raoul. As the excited crowd added this new move to their rapidly faster routine, Erik drummed the bongos in time, enjoying his total control possibly a bit too much.

_Bang! Bang! Bang!_

_Twitch twitch twitch_

_Jut _

_Jut_

_Shimmy!_

_Bang! Bang! Bang!_

_Twitch twitch twitch_

_Jut _

_Jut_

_Shimmy!_

The noise was deafening. The crowd was going wild. Piangi was even adding in a few pelvic thrusts, Carlotta throwing her head back and shaking her red curls wildly.

Christine, engrossed in the awesome rhythm, had eyes only for her Phantom, and thankfully missed the beginning of the managers' striptease, an experience that many other less fortunate people had nightmares about for the rest of their lives. She stepped over and through the writhing mass of masked dancers, and drifted slowly to the bottom of the marble staircase, staring up in awe at her rhythmic wraith.

The Phantom peered down through his sweaty mask and saw, to his delight, and somewhat relief, that something in his life was finally going right. He had a groupie! And he didn't even have his voice.

Christine planted one dainty foot on the bottom step, and the other on the next step, keeping totally in time with the beat of the bongos. Impatient, and more than slightly excited, the Phantom quickened the tempo, causing Christine to almost leap up the second half of the staircase. She paused on the last step, and gazed into the now untwitching eyes of her angel.

Erik extended one silkily gloved hand towards the raven-haired beauty, and, unable to stop himself, began to slowly, and sensuously, dance the Macarena. Christine climbed the final step and stood, barely two feet between them, breathlessly joining him in his exotic dance. Their eyes remained connected as they planted their hands on their waists and reached the climax of their strangely modern waltz.


	4. A Muteilating Message

**A/N: It's my sweet sixteenth today, and I thought I'd celebrate with a lovely new chapter of this wonderful story. Did I say lovely? I think I meant "ridiculous". I had fun writing, you have fun reading, and then we'll all have fun WRITING OR READING REVIEWS. Please? As a birthday present:) I love you guys! Enjoy poor, funny Raoul, and a few more Leroux references.**

Raoul sniffed slightly, bottom lip trembling, as he watched Christine and that blasted Phantom extend and retract their limbs. It just wasn't fair! I mean, he had more money, better looks and a cuter pout than the Phantom! Wasn't that enough for Christine? Did she have to go for actual masculinity too?

Suddenly, Raoul was struck by a thought. Shocked by the rarity of it all, he threw up one hand in surprise and knocked a priceless vase from its not-at-all precarious position on an antique table. The vase fell onto the floor, smashing into millions of tiny little, not quite as valuable, pieces of vase. One of these pieces bounced of the floor and into the eye of Piangi, who screeched as loudly as his beloved and stumbled backwards into a curtain, ripping it rudely from its railings and sending it angrily crashing to the floor, revealing a rather embarrassed couple, who had snuck off amid all the confusion.

Raoul, ignoring it all, raced madly off in the vague direction of his carriage. Due to his unfortunate directional skills, and his tendency to stop at every mirror on his path and swish his hair ravishingly, the hopeless young man would, of course, return much too late to be of any real use.

Meanwhile, the Phantom, still sensuously dancing the Macarena with Christine, pulled an unexpected move. At a point when both of their hands were outstretched, he deftly reached further than the dance intended, and grasped Christine's hands with his own. She gasped, shocked out of the rhythm.

Now would be the perfect time to start singing. For a person with a voice, no doubt. Without a voice, now was the perfect time for Erik to instantaneously formulate the next few steps of tonight's plan, and with a quick glance down Christine's cleavage, he did it.

In excitement, he ripped the engagement ring from around the soprano's neck a little more violently than he'd possibly intended, but didn't stop to apologise (like he would have been able to anyway) and instead walked jauntily down the stairs, towards a couple of highly expensive, highly gaudy portraits of the new managers.

Christine followed a step behind, partially annoyed by the loss of her pretty ring, and partially curious to see where her Angel was going with this.

Half a metre from the first painting, a particularly greasy Firmin, Erik paused mid- action, and considered things for a moment. What he was about to do would almost certainly completely obliterate Christine's ring. On the other hand, since when had the possibility of that been a problem?

Wholly convinced of his good intentions, the Phantom gripped the ring strongly with the first three fingers on his right hand, and ripped through the painting with the oversized diamond. He wrote:

_Why so silent, good messieurs?_

_Did you think that I had left you for good?_

_Have you missed me, good messieurs?_

_I have written you an opera!_

_Here I bring the finished score:_

_Don Juan the Silent! _

The Phantom's assumed sense of superiority was so blaringly obvious that you could hear his cynicism through his writings.

Finally finished, he clapped his hands together with finality, before chucking the ring backwards, over his head, where it fell with a clatter onto the shelf of a nearby bookcase. The ring rolled into the small space between the dust jacket and cover of a small, dusty book entitled, _Essential French Grammar, 17th Edition_. It still has not, as of yet, been discovered.

Erik smiled triumphantly as he peered out of his mask, and the layers of black eye shadow he had painstakingly put on. His wide grin slipped a notch as he noted Madame Giry's disapproving glare. He had not asked her for her permission to borrow the makeup.

Suddenly he noticed that everybody in the room was looking more than slightly expectant, and mortified, he realised that he'd forgotten to give the score of his opera to the managers. Hurriedly, he pulled it out of a deep pocket, and thrust it towards the nearest manager, who happened to be a very distraught Firmin trying to reassemble his portrait. Thankfully for him, the torn up, mostly destroyed painting made the man look better than he had before.

Satisfied that his purpose had been made entirely clear to the population of the ballroom, the Phantom turned back around and looked deeply into the eyes of Christine, attempting a hypnotic gaze he'd read about in _Vampires Daily_. He didn't _think_ it had worked, but she looked pretty entranced anyway, so he ticked that trick off his mental list. The self-proclaimed Master of Trapdoors was always after new tricks, and it had been a while since he had found a new one: opening doors with bobby pins.

The only downside to Erik's current situation was that he knew he couldn't stay so close to Christine for very long. There was no way he was going to let his angel catch the horrible cold which had rendered him silent. No- he would wait until the opening of _Don Juan_, when he was simply _certain_ to have recovered his voice. Then they could be together forever.

With one last longing, lingering glance at Christine's wide, glassy, staring gaze, the Phantom turned on his heel and pushed his way through the silent, inquisitive crowd, strutting back up the stairs, not stopping except to pick up his bongos from where they had been left forgotten on the floor.

_So much for a dramatic exit. But if I don't get these bongos safely back to the bloody Persian, he'll stop cleaning the mirrors in my torture chamber._

Raoul ran back into the ballroom, and was met with a loud silence. His panting broke the quiet, and after a moment, he held up a pair of tap shoes triumphantly. Meg merely rolled her eyes, and gestured towards the lack of Phantom.

And with that, Raoul burst into tears.

As this happened so often, however, Christine automatically pulled out a tissue and held it ready for her foppish fiancé. Her eyes were still fixed upon the space recently occupied by her Angel of Music. Her heart was still excitedly drumming out the rhythm of the dance. Her toes were still hurting from an attempt to dance with Raoul previously that evening.

She did not realise that the Phantom had not uttered a word in their entire encounter. It seemed the lucky devil possessed more than one attribute that entirely entranced Christine….


	5. Mirror, Mirror, ARGH!

**A/N: Salut! You would not believe it. This morning I got the stupid cold that's going around my school, and I am on the fast track to muteness myself. Talk about Murphy's Law. Ah, but I did have fun writing this chapter. Much as I violently dislike Raoul, I do so enjoy writing his character in comedy. He's just so hilarious. Hope you love it as much as I do! **

"Mon Dieu, Raoul, you'll drown us all!" Madame Giry finally cried, impatient as ever. This time, however, the strict old ballet mistress wasn't the only onlooker in the ballroom getting a bit miffed at the boy's incessant sobbing.

He had been standing next to an unresponsive Christine for about five minutes, clutching at the ties of his tap shoes, screwing up his face and moaning with the utter determination of an annoyed cow. Whether this was some misguided attempt to recapture his fiancée's attention, or merely an old habit dying hard (and loudly), it was to some people's relief when Madame Giry tugged at his elbow until he finally stumbled, whimpering, after her.

He wiped at his eyes angrily with his free hand, dragging his feet and generally acting like a spoiled son of the Comte de Chagny. He set his face into a pout and didn't shift his jutting lower lip until, with a gasp, he saw the most wondrous sight!

They had entered a room. A room of mirrors. A single giant, reflective surface, all angles and lustre and pure, unadulterated beauty! Raoul ripped his hand free from the somewhat bewildered Madame, and basked freely in this scenario, more magnificent than his wildest dreams!

But where to look first? And how much flicking could his perfectly coifed hair take?

As Raoul frantically considered all the frightening possibilities, he began to quiver, shake, and crouch pathetically in defence. It was all too much! Too many mirrors, too many choices, too much sheer brilliance packed into this one little room! This truly was a torture chamber!

Suddenly the irate Madame swooped down in front of the paranoid young man, and it seemed that all he could see reflected now were her thin, thin lips, and unstyled hair.

He followed her meekly out of the scary room, quick at her heels. Once she'd closed a covertly hidden entrance, he breathed a silent sigh of relief, and vowed on his dear mother's grave never to waste another moment admiring his reflection again.

Just before entering a rather plain looking room compared to the richly adorned corridor leading on to it, Raoul stopped by a guilt-framed mirror and flipped his hair ravishingly. "You scoundrel, you," he purred, showing off those wonderful pearly whites.

He rolled his eyes at Madame Giry's exasperated call, and strolled through the low wooden doorway, taking the only available seat as he waited for the mistress to reveal her curious intent for bringing him here. He could only imagine that it could be for hair advice. Or clothes advice. Or even love advice, for goodness sake- I mean, he got the girl, didn't he? What did she have? A daughter? Her daughter was good looking though, he mused, stroking his chin. I mean, it wasn't all a loss for the old woman…

"If you'd be so kind as to listen to me for a moment, Viscomte." A thin voice broke through his drawling reverie, and he shook himself slightly, before smiling disarmingly at his companion.

"Go ahead."

Madame Giry shifted somewhat uncomfortably from her position, leaning against an old wooden desk in the corner of the room. Raoul, filing his nails, neither noticed nor cared. Sighing slightly, she began:

"Now Monsieur, I wouldn't normally be telling you this, but my intuition has compelled me to believe that something has gone awry in the Opera House. Six months had passed since that man some refer to as the Phantom of the Opera made his presence known, and I for one believed that maybe he had finally been defeated by the knowledge that you and Christine were engaged."

"How do you know that?" Raoul cried, outraged, uncrossing his legs with agitation. "It was a secret! A secret engagement!"

Madame Giry rolled her eyes. "It was hardly secret, my good man. Prancing around the lower levels of the Opera House humming the Wedding March is hardly a good way of hiding an engagement. But please allow me to continue:

"Tonight, when the Phantom finally came out of hiding and addressed us all in that peculiar, yet arousing manner of his, I realised something heartbreaking to an old ballet mistress: he dances better than I do! I simply cannot abide competition like that," she cried forlornly, wringing her hands in despair and agitation. "Did you see the way all those people were looking at him? It should have been me up there, on that staircase! Me, twitching my eyes and shaking my bon bon! I demand respect!"

Raoul slid back in his chair, avoiding the spray of spit fountaining from the old woman's mouth. A moment later, however, intrigued by the air of bitchiness in Madame Giry's tone, he leant forward once more and listened closely to her as she calmed herself slightly and continued.

"It was I who gave him his freedom, you know. Me, the rescuer of that ungrateful, dancing ghoul. You see, it all began about thirty years ago, when I was but a darling ballet girl perfecting the art with all the other aspiring dancers at this great Opera Populaire. Our ballet mistress, a rather formidable woman with muscular legs and a monobrow-"

Her eyes misted over as she continued her recount of her wonderful, magical, heavily exaggerated youth, with great dramatic flair and utter monotony. Raoul's eyes misted over as if reflecting Madame Giry's impenetrable delight, yet it wouldn't have taken a genius to figure out that he was slowly drifting in and out of consciousness, with longer and longer periods of unconsciousness as the tale wound on (and on and on.)

Sudddenly his eyes bolted open as the crazy old woman slammed her fist on the table in agitation, still obliviously telling her story, having finally moved past her long-winded anecdotes of the price of ballet shoes in 'her day.'

"I know! I couldn't believe it either! The nerve of those circus people, putting a sign on the Freaks' tent saying 'Sale!' I went in there full of hope and excitement, and was confronted by a dreadful, dreadful sight: right there, before my eyes, my ballet mistress and the conductor were _kissing_ in a corner of the tent! _C'est l'horreur!_ I was scarred for life! I ran past the couple, covering my eyes in utter disgust, until I suddenly bumped into the cold metal bars of a cage. I looked inside, eager for any distraction from thoughts of that dreadful encounter."

Raoul blinked excitedly, in great anticipation. "But what happened then? What was inside the cage?" By this point, the twenty-year-old man had scooted to the edge of his seat, swinging his legs impatiently.

"It was…" She paused dramatically, clutching at her breast for effect. "Erik."

"_Quoi_?"

"Erik! The Phantom of the Opera! It was he, he, inside that cage!"

"But I thought he spent his earlier years in and around India, working for royalty, becoming a Master of Trapdoors, and eventually helping to build the Opera House itself!"

Madame Giry sighed. "Can you never move on, Raoul? At least with my version of the story you've thankfully lost that pathetic, wispy, yellow moustache."

Raoul's hand leapt to his smooth face as a reflex, mentally reassuring himself of the lack of facial hair. "Right, so he was in that cage…?"

She nodded with satisfaction. "He was indeed. Erik was the main attraction in the House of Freaks, whipped and beaten, forced to show his hideous deformities to the mocking crowds day in and day out. I felt a bit sorry for him- at the time, of course," she added bitterly. "I stayed longer than the rest of the crowd, and saw him murder his cruel master. I was terrified- such violence was not permitted within the dormitories, and I was yet naïve to the terrible ways of the world. But I couldn't just leave the poor thing there. I was no more heartless then than I am now," she added proudly.

"Or any more intelligent," Raoul muttered inaudibly, miraculously imparting some wisdom to the readers.

Madame Giry's eyes narrowed with suspicion, and she ended her story rather abruptly (especially compared to her previous ramblings.) "And so I took him outta there, into here, and called it a day. The end."

Raoul shifted uncomfortably in his seat. "Is that it?" he asked, confused.

"Yes," she snapped menacingly, "Why?"

"Well… was there really a point to you telling me this story? I mean, okay, the man grew up in a circus. Figures. But that still leaves the mystery of his amazing genius, his musical talent and his obsession with my fiancée."

"Ah well, them's the breaks, my lad. The time's up, I had better go and check on the girls." The irate woman left it unsaid that she was going to re-establish her dominance over her dancers. Poor Madame needed at least a few underlings she could astonish with her dancing skills.

Raoul stood up as she left, shook out his hair deftly, and followed her out the door, swinging his tap shoes absent-mindedly behind him. Christine surely needed him at this great time of torment and anxiety. He needed her. I mean, that ruined engagement ring cost a fortune.

**A/A/N: Now, before I forget, can I just say that I do so love reading those wonderful reviews that I'm given by those wonderful people out there. Some of the things you guys find funny don't seem that hilarious to me when I'm writing them, and so it's great to know what other people are enjoying. Keep it up to keep you happy and to keep me happy. :) Oooh, and I think I'll respond to a couple here from now… **

**NB: Did I say a couple? I meant ALL of them.**

**Mominator: I absolutely ADORE your reviews. They make me feel all fuzzy and involved. Can I just say, I love Madagascar too. ;) Not to mention Raoul's tap shoes.**

**WanderingTeen: I'll start by saying that I too am a peripatetic teenager, and thus THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR YOUR CONSTANT REVIEWING! sniff Also, do you know that I love your stories? Cause I so awesomely do. Especially Phone Messages. Hee.**

**NinjaAlchemist: What can I say? You're awesome! Go you. Make pleasant life decisions. Such as continuing to read my story. :)**

**SpruceGooseMach2: Love the name. What sort of Hallowe'en dances have you been having though? The Macarena is not scary! Being Australian, I probably don't understand special customs and traditions, so I'll just back away with my dignity hanging by a thread.**

**Psychonerd5: You know, I also ask myself why Gerard Butler is so hot day in and day out, and I eventually stop and think: hey, why am I questioning God's good graces? **

**TERRY – cRaZy ItALian: The Macarena is awesome. So is Erik. If you combine them both together, you either get Macerik, or DOUBLY AWESOME!**

**Kalaia: (I'm going quite a bit back now, hope you still remember you reviewed. :)) I hope you're still enjoying the story! I'd love to hear from you again. :)**

**Twixy: Okay, I updated soon (enough), now do me a favour and RECIPROCATE:) And be happy!**

**MercuryKitten: You were once my first reviewer… You were all that mattered. You were once a kiiiind reviewer… now I want you to come back and keep it up… :)**

**Look, I sang for you, is that enough:)**


	6. Sleepless or Snoring

**A/N: Cowabunga! I'm back, with another chapter! I believe it's St Patrick's Day, so just imagine, if you will, that the screen is green, and then once you've reached the bottom of the fic, press the lovely green button which says "Submit Review > Go". Hope you enjoy this chapter! It's full of Christiny, Eriky, Raouly goodness. And fibre. It has a lot of fibre. Available at your local supermarkets. shut up, Fiona! Okay, read now:)

* * *

**

Christine threw her sheets off of her sweaty, twisted limbs in disgust. She had lain there in her comfortable, familiar bed for hours, but could not make her restless mind sleep. She simply couldn't get the wonderfully sinful image of the Phantom's sexy dance out of her head. And his eyes… those grey, green, blue- who cares- those startlingly intense eyes…

She lay back for a moment upon that thought, quiet for once as she contemplated the unfortunate consequences of such a gaze. It was directed at her, and her alone. That thought was at once both terribly frightening yet also intriguing to her.

It was to Christine's somewhat annoyance when a muffled grunt, snore and long, echoing whine glided through the tiny crack between her closed bedroom door and the hard wooden floor. Finally disturbed completely out of her slightly thrilling reverie, she sat up, leant up against the hard bedstead and rolled her eyes, not for the last time, at the infuriating antics of her small-minded fiancé.

Sure, Raoul thought he was helping Christine by 'guarding' her door, but not only was he acting as an untimely alarm clock for the poor woman, but he had somehow got it into his head that the best way of protecting his darling would be to face his chair _towards_ her door. It was almost like he didn't trust her, as if he was making sure that she wouldn't creep out and rendezvous with the Phantom…

_Nah, couldn't be_, she thought with unexpected relief, _he's just not that bright, poor chap._

It was pure selfishness, Christine decided angrily. He wanted to play the big, strong man, tough and protecting, and then let himself fall asleep. Alright, utter selfishness marred slightly by stupidity. But couldn't the man learn to follow the suggestions of other, more intellectually-gifted individuals? Like everyone else in Paris?

It was in an odd sort of defiance that Christine decided to sneak out past her hopeless 'protector', and visit the first place that sprung to mind: her father's grave.

Fittingly, the virtuous young woman decided to don rather unusual apparel for a visit to the grave of her father: a revealing (to say the least) navy dress with a thick little scarf high around the neck for modesty.

She tiptoed over to her bedroom door and creaked it gently open, making every effort to avoid waking Raoul. Her pains seemed unnecessary, however, as Raoul's loud, rapturous snoring dwarfed any other sound within a hundred metre radius. She cheekily placed a marble on the tongue of her beloved, and then skipped merrily down the staircases and through a heavy wooden door at the side of the Opera House.

She sobered up a little as she burst into the freezing early hours of the morning. Snow covered the ground prettily, like icing sugar powdered on a chocolate cake, and she suddenly realised that she hadn't eaten since before the Masquerade the previous night. But there was no time for food- she needed to get to the cemetery as soon as possible.

Christine had realised by this time that her Angel of Music was in actuality a human being like herself, or Raoul, but she still had a few unanswered questions. And her Angel always appeared during her visits to the graveyard. She needed to ask him how the Phantom could be a mere mortal, and yet dance like a god.

* * *

Erik smiled gleefully. It had been the best twelve hours of his life. First he had achieved enormous success at the Masquerade. Not only was his opera now to be performed for eager crowds, but he had miraculously won back a little of his darling Christine.

Soon after arriving triumphantly back at his lair, he had sat down at his organ stool. Too excited to even contemplate the notion of sleep, the Phantom had grabbed a sheaf of manuscript paper and began to compose a celebratory sonata. In his haste, he had swiped his pinkie across the edge of a rather nasty fugue, and got a paper cut.

He had yelled in annoyance.

He had yelled in annoyance.

He had _yelled_ in annoyance.

A sound! He had made a sound! A sound through his larynx this time, bongos be damned! It seemed that _finally_ his throat was improving. After all this time, all it had taken was a paper cut to once more unleash the devilish beauty of his voice.

This miraculous event, in conjunction with the next fantastic occurrence, truly made his day/night. He heard the collar he had placed around Christine's ankle jingle, and knew instinctively that she was going to visit her father's grave, effectively looking for him.

He would sing to her! And how he would sing! Erik grabbed his favourite swishy cloak, whirled it on, tucked his best fencing sword into his left long maroon sock and ran all the way through his intricate passages into the open.

Getting rid of the carriage driver was easy, and the Phantom swung himself noiselessly into the driver's seat, having to stop himself from humming with delight. He heard the rustle of Christine's skirts as she clambered into the passenger's seat, and set the horses off at a gallop through the clearing mist of the dawn.

* * *

It was with a gigantic spluttering that Raoul awoke. Christine's little 'prank' hadn't entirely worked as well as the girl might have expected; Raoul still lived.

It was somehow intriguing to think that the only thing that saved him in the end were those endless years the man had spent with his face set in a pout. He had been pouting so voraciously, for so long, that when he slackened his face muscles, say when he was asleep, his face automatically settled into a pout. Because of this rather useless piece of trivia, the marble had not been able to escape past Raoul's tonsils and choke him to death. Instead, it got stuck between his tongue and the top of his mouth. What had finally woken him up was the build up of saliva in his mouth, thus the spluttering.

When the marble went whizzing through the air and smashed a nearby priceless vase, Raoul neither noticed nor cared. He saw the open door in front of him, and that was enough. Being the intelligent guy which he wasn't, he didn't even check inside the room to see if an intruder had indeed entered with some vile purpose.

Raoul raced outside to find an empty street but for one poor staggering carriage driver. Raoul made a beeline for the driver, and the poor man sputtered out all he could think of to say, which was thankfully what Raoul wanted to hear.

"They was headin' to the cemetery, mister! Take the horses, just don't hurt me! _Mon Dieu_, the wife's gonna kill me! Do ya have a couple of spare francs? Only I want to numb some nerves with a whiskey or two before the missus settles into me."

Raoul chucked a few coins in the grateful man's quivering palm, then grabbed the closest horse. He set off for a gallop in the direction of the closest cemetery.

Unfortunately for Raoul, being the heavily populated area of a capital city, there were a lot of graveyards to choose from. Luckily for him, however, he somehow managed to make his way to the right one.

On his fourth attempt.

* * *

**A/A/N: Hee hee, I'm sorry I couldn't get around to the actual swordfight scene (yet) but there were just so many opportunities to explore in this small section of the story! I doubt whether many of you were expecting Christine to start displaying homicidal tendencies towards Raoul. I mean, sure, you could say it was dramatically out of character for her, but... c'mon, maybe she just lost a little naivety. ;)**

**Review Replying: Ilikes this part**

**Moon: Yay! New reviewer! I feel a bit sorry for Raoul in my story... sometimes... and not a lot, but look out for a whole lot more outsmarting. Say, did anyone notice how he keeps breaking vases? Priceless vases:)**

**NinjaAlchemist: OMG, an Erik plushie! However, I think he's already a little worn out... We need some heavy duty Erik plushies imported! Thank you!**

**Mominator: I must admit, I missed writing Erik in that chapter too. But don't fear, Erik is woven inescapably throughout this story, which means that he is always there, if not in body, in hot, sexy spirit. Oh, and I need to give you some credit in the next chapter. Your review gave me a marvellous idea, so thank you! **

**Fopfighters: I love your name. It just speaks to me somehow... Nice to meet you! Gald you're enjoying the chair-fallingness of my story:)**

**WanderingTeen: I hereby give you permission to get high on coughdrops whenever you want, you're just too nice. :) Embarrassment in public areas is fun! Go you!**

**I love you all! Please keep reviewing, it keeps those creative juices flowing! And it gives me an odd sense of self-worth and accomplishment. :)**


	7. A Foppish Fight

**A/N: Bon soir mes amis! Here is the seventh chapter of this glorious, enriching tale, and seven must indeed be lucky, because somehow this chapter has turned out extra long. I don't know, for some reason I just couldn't make the simple little graveyard scene a simple little chapter. I like it too much. Hopefully you guys will enjoy the straaange humour I've injected into this portion of the saga, because somehow I have this feeling that it's slightly… odder than usual. Oh, and I do actually like Christine's voice (particularly Emmy's), so just take that part lightly. Blame it on the fop. Or the boogie.

* * *

**

Erik halted the horses rather enthusiastically directly in front of the graveyard gates. He stopped the horses so suddenly that his mask fell off, and, panicking, he shooed Christine quickly out of the carriage, wrapping his long black cloak around his face, gripping the fallen mask desperately between his knees, giving him the hunched over appearance of a hunchback. He still managed to procure a hefty tip from his oblivious passenger, however.

Once the girl was out, he spurred on the horses enthusiastically, sped around to the gates at the opposite end of the cemetery, and hurried in, rattling the coins in his pocket absent-mindedly.

Upon reaching the tomb of the great Charles Daaé, he quickly stole within, grateful for once for the odd habit Christine had of taking the longest possible path to her father's grave. He danced around for half a minute in the small space within the family vault, connecting odd strands of copper wire, pressing protruding buttons, generally acting a great deal like Dr Frankenstein in the moments before his terrible triumph. Finally, with one last check over the complicated equipment, and the annihilating of a small cockroach nest ("It's alive," he had muttered with distaste) he swept out of the entrance and crawled to sit on top of the snow-covered roof, grinning with exhilaration.

As he sat, immersed up to his chest in snow and ice, he rubbed his bare hands together with anticipation. He watched as Christine slowly made her way closer to the grave. He put on his special halo and plastic wings.

* * *

The last mournful notes drifted from the warm passageways of Christine's throat and were effaced immediately by the bitter winter chill. Christine, having finished her scenic tour of the cemetery, knelt down on the icy steps leading to her father's tomb, and bowed her head.

A few seconds later, she raised it again, a little peeved at the present lack of her angel. Suddenly a smile alit her face, as a red glow alit a cross at the back of the Daaé tomb.

Her angel had arrived.

* * *

Erik pushed down hard on a stubbornly frozen lever for a good minute before it thankfully decided to give way. He hadn't precisely known what he would have done if his great plan hadn't worked for once, and was rather relieved that it hadn't come to another bongo smash hit.

As the lever pressed down, the faint sound of grinding cogs could be heard from somewhere within the vault; strings were pulled, buttons were pressed, lights flashed on and off, and eventually, from somewhere near the back wall, a flaming torch slid forward, lodging itself securely behind a heavy wooden crucifix covered in pretty red cellophane.

Erik could see the reflection of the red light on the flat, untouched snow in front of the tomb, and in the wide, wondering eyes of his beloved Christine. Stage one had gone precisely to plan. He pulled off the wings and halo with a variable degree of relief.

Clearing his throat, he prepared to burst into song.

Now, this snowy meeting was probably the toughest event the Phantom had to plan for in this whole voiceless ordeal. If he hadn't regained the use of his vocal chords just hours earlier, he would have had to resort to Plan B, a difficult and slightly embarrassing plan involving a poster of La Carlotta's previous role, a pair of lederhosen and the Opera House goat. Thankfully, the gods seemed to have taken pity on the poor, desperate man. Or the goat.

As it was, the strength of Erik's voice was not yet to be trusted; indeed, if Christine herself had tried to sing in such a state, she would have been severely berated by her teacher. Erik had finally decided that he would sing to his lovely soprano, but with plenty of instrumental interludes.

And so it came to be that as the Phantom opened his mouth in preparation for song, he also raised a bulky, arduous instrument to his chest. It seemed that finally his distant, twisted, confusing, indirect Scottish ancestry was useful for something. He fingered the mouthpiece eagerly as he hefted the bagpipes up onto his chest.

His tartan kilt wafted in the breeze.

* * *

Raoul wiped his perspiring brow in faint relief as he finally found the correct graveyard. He could tell it was the right cemetery because of the carriage belonging to the Opera House waiting outside. Besides, on the way to her father's tomb, Christine had made a few snow angels, and strands of her long, distinguishable hair remained stuck in the snow. Raoul followed these strands like in Hansel and Gretel, though a path clearly marked the way through the cemetery.

After passing a few dozen gravestones with blank indifference, looking up for the telling strands of hair every few seconds, Raoul's delicate Viscomte ears were suddenly assaulted with a dreadful sound, a screeching from the bowels of hell itself. Smiling brightly, recognising the familiar sound of Christine's voice, he began to urge his panicky horse faster, onwards down the icy path.

As he drew nearer, he could vaguely pick up a hint of bagpipes under the warbling of his fiancée, and his brow furrowed with anger. There was only one man in Paris, probably all of France, who could play the bagpipes like that. And yes, he had only been allowed to practise this instrument because of his solitary living arrangements, far from the ears of any other Frenchman.

"What a monster!" he seethed through his clenched teeth, clutching the reigns more tightly in his fists.

Raoul jumped off his horse with a flourish and a hair-flick, unbuttoned the top few buttons on his billowy white shirt, preparing for battle in the only way he knew how. He grabbed his sword from its holster and swung it around with a weak wrist, like he was holding a badminton racquet. Posing ferociously, face in a battle-ready pout, Raoul ferociously resisted the eerily entrancing powers of the Phantom's bagpipes, and prepared to rescue his beloved.

His beloved, still thoroughly transfixed by the sound of Erik's voice and his bagpipes, didn't notice her hero as he cleared his throat self-importantly to announce his arrival.

Raoul frowned, and cleared his throat again. When that attempt had again attracted no response, he resorted to childish measures.

"Knock knock," he stated triumphantly, swaggering a little as he awaited his moment in the spotlight.

Vaguely, (still enraptured by the music), as if answering purely out of habit, Christine immediately responded: "Who's there?"

"Not your father!"

This unexpected punch line seemed to reach Christine like nothing else could. She gasped, mind boggling as she was drawn painfully back to reality from her pleasant hypnotisation.

Sometimes Raoul could be _so_ annoying. He _always_ used to win those stupid knock knock games!

Of course it wasn't her father! How stupid did her fiancé think her? Couldn't he see, even through that teeny, teeny brain of his, that she must have realised who her angel was by now? Christine turned angrily around to face Raoul, and would probably have said something highly sarcastic, except that suddenly Erik interrupted her by jumping dramatically off the roof, an event she couldn't ignore due to the flowy, swishy nature not only of his cloak, but of his kilt.

Erik leapt onto the snow, landing as gracefully as one encumbered by a set of bagpipes could, billowed past Christine, and faced Raoul down from the top of the snow-covered steps. Seeing Raoul's ready sword, he hurriedly snapped the bagpipes across his knee, threw the tartan cloth aside and held the sharp, broken end of the pipe before him.

Raoul quivered slightly. He had never been faced with something so lethal as a bagpipe before.

The Phantom sped down the stairs and the two men began jabbing and swooshing at each other, both dressed entirely inappropriately for a romp in the snow. Raoul's open shirt flew constantly into his eyes; the Phantom was forced to use one hand to hold his kilt firmly down. Erik's cloak bothered them both, but Christine rather liked it, so demanded that he kept it on.

Christine, apart from making that one small request, stayed surprisingly calm and quiet throughout the entire ordeal. Both men secretly thought (with a certain degree of irritation, at least on Erik's behalf) that she must have been enjoying the view, correctly, as it were.

After a couple of minutes duelling, Raoul blew wisps of escaped hair out of his face in annoyance. He could feel himself perspiring, and blotchiness was never a good look for his complexion.

Erik felt victory approaching, and, filled with a new energy, parried and swiped faster than he had before. The thought of triumph filled his senses as finally, with one last jab as his opponent, he managed to rip through Raoul's shirt and break the skin of his left arm.

He stood back as Raoul staggered with shock, and blew one chilling note of victory, breaking the surrounding silence in the clearing. He smiled, a hand on his hip, confident to the extreme, until suddenly…

Raoul shook with anger from his toes to the top of his pretty blonde head. His eyes were filled with insane, vibrant wrath. Erik backed away slightly, his newly found confidence slightly shot. Raoul released a roar reminiscent of the sound made by a cornered wild bear, and staggered forward, blind with rage, swinging his sword violently in all directions.

"Oh dear," Christine said to Erik, shaking her head knowingly. "That was his favourite white shirt, you know."

Erik groaned. Why did his angel have to surround herself with such shallow lunatics? He ducked as one of Raoul's more precise swings chopped mercilessly at his head, and attempted unsuccessfully to regain the upper hand.

It seemed to Erik like a very short time before he was finally knocked backwards onto the snow, defenceless and defeated. He closed his eyes and prepared to die at the hands of the insane fop.

_This is _so _not the way to go_, he thought despondently. If he was to be murdered, he wanted at least a little dignity.

Thankfully, Christine seemed to share the same opinion, and she somehow managed to tame the savage beast before he completed his revenge. The two of them left shortly, Christine looking rather disappointed, leaving Erik lying alone on the snow.

He would have shouted some truly imposing comeback at the departing two, but as he sat up, wincing slightly, he was overcome by the uncontrollable urge to sneeze.

Sneezing with a mask on is not a matter for hugs and puppies, as the reader can probably imagine, and a Phantom only has so many hands he can make use of. It was with great difficulty that Erik finally managed to pull himself up, one hand holding his mask securely to his face, the other self-consciously pulling his kilt down, suffering from a coughing fit all the while.

It seemed that not only had the poor fool chosen a completely inappropriate outfit for a spontaneous duel, but also for a freezing winter morning. Upon his somewhat pathetic return to his draughty lair, he felt a little like he had six months previously, when he once more discovered the horrible absence of his voice.

And this time he had only days before the biggest performance of his life.

* * *

**A/N: He he, I do love a kilt. Onto Review Replies:**

**Fopfighters: Gee, I do love a good insane punjabbing… maybe that's the missing element in the story. But how to incorporate it… Thanks, my chair falling fop hating friend!**

**WanderingTeen: Yay, you like the marble! I liked the marble too. It moved me. sigh Say, when I reviewed one of your stories (about Eau d'Erik, no?) my scary enjoyment of the delicious humour didn't scare you at all, did it? Coz I really enjoyed it! Lol, here comes the insecurity… keep reviewing regardless:)**

**Faust: Maybe you're right… maybe Christine should have used something a little more immediately fatal than a marble to off Raoul, but somehow… somehow I still need the poor fop in my story. At least for a while. :) Might have to put up with his frivolous antics for a little longer… Glad you're enjoying it!**

**Winnie1955: With reviews like that, how could I not keep going:) Thanks for the positive feedback!**

**Squish97: Ah HA, new blood…well, more new blood. Lol, I'm still getting funny images from your description of Erik's "bongo dancing"- now THAT would be sight to behold. :) And thanks for the encouragement with the languagy writing stuff- sometimes I just feel like grammar should die, but I agree, it definitely makes a difference if a story is well proofread. Hear me all phic writers! **

**Janxspirit: Now, then: your name wouldn't possibly be vaguely linked to that wonderful radio series, books and (dreadful) movie of H2G2? Welcome fellow Hitch-hiker:) Oh, and thanks for reviewing my story! (Got a little distracted there.)**

**Timeisfleeting: Lol, I really was hoping that people would appreciate the marble thing, and not just be like, "Okay, so we finally have proof that the author is indeed off her marbles"- ha ha. Pun. Thanks for the comment!**

**AcanyaHelke: Lol, glad you liked the Lord of the Dance bit- you know, I got inspiration for that name from the movie _Queen of the Damned_- y'know, with Lestat and the freakish rose bath. I always call it Queen of the Dance for some reason. And I randomly thought of it while writing. And this is a weird review response, so sorry, and watch _Interview With a Vampire_ because Tom Cruise (Lestat in _that_ movie) has long, curly blonde hair- and it's funny.**

**FoxHartsPhics: Aw, thanks for the review! I absolutely adored Erik's swishy cape as well. Incidentally, I recently realised that all my celebrity crushes seem to have donned long swishy black capes at one time or another: Hayden Christensen, James Marsters, Gerry… That ever happen to you? Lol, another freaky insight into my life. Keep reading and enjoying:)**

**Mominator: Yay! Someone noticed Christine's jingly ankle collar! I was trying to think of a way for Erik to notice her whereabouts, because frankly I don't want him to have to stalk her all day in my story, because he needs ample brooding time! I hope you (particularly) enjoyed this chapter, coz I know you've been looking forward to it ever so much. :) I was actually considering using your tap shoes idea at first, but then my anti-temperate brain decided to freeze on me, and I discovered the many possibilities a kilt has, and, yes. Oh, and I hadn't noticed that cape thing in the movie! That's really quite funny, isn't it:) Thanks as always for the review!**

**NinjaAlchemist: Looking forward to those heavy-duty plushies. :) I only just got your review, so hopefully your magical suppliers front up! ;) Thanks for the review!**


	8. Erik's Lament

**A/N: All right, I wrote the Erik part of this chapter vainly hoping that a few of you wonderful readers had heard/seen some music from _Guys and Dolls_. If you haven't, well, hopefully it'll still be funny and I'll look intelligent. :) Hope you enjoy the chapter!**

**Disclaimer (for once): I do not own anything from _Guys and Dolls_ or _Phantom_, apart from a small jar of Erik's phlegm (thank you ebay ;)).

* * *

**

Raoul marched robustly down the main corridor in the backstage area, flanked by the two blundering managers, Madame Giry, Meg and many other onlookers who had grown interested in the fate of the strange opera which had been forced upon them with only a couple of weeks to prepare.

La Carlotta was amongst them, heavily involved in the action as she always was, trailing the managers with that dreadful, ambitious glint in her eyes. She had accepted, after several tantrums, that 'ze little chorus wench', as she liked to call Christine, was to take the lead female role, but she was determined to take at least a small part, and probably overdo it terribly.

Whispers among the ballet girls had decided that even if the formidable diva was shoved aside into the chorus it would not make much difference, for Carlotta's piercing voice had the habit of overwhelming any other interfering noise in its presence.

It was a strange thing to note that the woman's two poodles seemed to share this trait, and their squeaky yaps only added to the general din echoing around the small corridor.

"Won't somebody _please_ shoot the owner of that hideous racket?" Firmin groaned in annoyance, eyes turned to the heavens in a silent plea.

"You mean the dogs?" Andre asked distractedly. Just how _did_ Raoul manage to keep his hair so immaculate and shiny?

Firmin smiled tiredly. "I said, the _owner_."

Both men chuckled for a minute, then sighed wistfully as one. Raoul looked over sharply from where he was outlining his magnificent plan. This was his moment of glory. He rapped his knuckles against a priceless vase, shattering it beyond repair, and cleared his throat.

"Gentlemen."

"_Mon dieu_, what is that, the third vase this month?" Madame Giry muttered with irritation to Meg. "Do you think the fool knows how much he's costing the theatre with that brainless habit, coupled with the special shampoo he insists on charging to the account?"

"And ladies," Raoul added stubbornly, drawing the attention of the crowd back to him. Satisfied with the silence now surrounding him, save for the howling of the two poodles, he twirled his hair and put on his stage voice.

"Now, this Phantom guy, he's no good for the theatre, is he?" he began, tapping his foot against the wooden floorboards to add emphasis to his words. "We have all been blind! I mean, did you see his costume at the Masquerade? Did he, like, grow up in a zoo or something?"

Madame Giry sighed again. It had been only days since she'd told Raoul the whole wretched story of Erik's background, and here he was, revealing his ignorance to the entire Opera company.

Raoul continued, oblivious to any such opinions. Once the man got going, there was really no way to stop him. "What on earth convinced him to wear a full-on red suit to a ball? That is _so_ last year. And he must have known Christine was going to be wearing that pink dress of hers. He watches her through the mirror in her dressing room, see, and I must have held it against me- against _her_- for simply hours before the event. Talk about bad planning."

Firmin cleared his throat loudly, and tried to interrupt. "Also, there was that matter of the murder of-"

Raoul pivoted on his heel and glared crossly at the disruptive manager. "Excuse me, as I was saying, the Phantom needs to be taken down! And the best time to do so would be at the upcoming performance of _Don Juan_, his evil play."

Monsieur Reyer broke into Raoul's fervent speech, a finger held before him in refutation. "Actually, Monsieur Viscomte, the opera is quite magnificent, really a work of geni-"

"Precisely! A work of madness!" Raoul spat violently. "Now, I am certain that the monster will show himself at his play. Why? Because he is a narcissistic beggar for attention!" Raoul flicked his hair and stamped his foot at this defining statement, and flung his arms up, spinning around to face the captivated audience before him.

"We cannot lose this battle!" he cried, gesticulating madly. Madame Giry stole behind him, and quickly gathered all the nearby vases into her arms, then backed away slowly from the animate man. "For one thing, we hold the spade!"

Raoul grabbed the closest inanimate object within reach, a torch, and jabbed it violently towards the dubious crowd.

Andre chanced another intrusion, and quickly leant over to the confused Raoul, muttering something into his impatient ear.

"Yes, yes, the ace!" Raoul said vaguely, having spotted a mirror on a wall nearby.

Firmin, wanting to hold the crowd's attention and rile them up as much as possible, took this opportunity to speak. "We will get him, and stop this madness! His reign will end!"

Raoul raced unashamedly to the mirror, and grabbed a fistful of silky, flaxen hair. "Did you say I had a split end?"

* * *

The Phantom's lair, deep below the Opera House in the cavernous depths of the underground lake, was not generally an uncluttered place. Like many geniuses, Erik worked best when surrounded by organised mess. Piles of manuscripts, screwed up bits of failed masterpieces and random sets of bongo drums were only a few of the things that usually covered the floor.

Today, however, the clutter had grown substantially, and even the manuscripts had been shoved to the side to provide room for the interesting objects recently procured somehow by the miserable occupant of the place. An excess of scented candles, wreaths made from little bulbs of garlic, herbs, spices, lunar calendars, medical journals, perfumes and cough lollies- all of these things surrounded Erik as he sat despondently in a hastily cleared spot on the floor.

He had tried every last remedy he could remember the gypsies mentioning from his days at the circus; he'd even performed a voodoo ritual he vaguely recalled from one of his more mysterious travels. Nothing had worked. Nothing. Not even the cough lollies.

Erik sighed loudly, then threw his hands up to hold on his mask as he was wracked by the ensuing violent coughs.

It was time to try something a little different.

Deeply mistrustful though he was with things from this field of publication, it seemed that finally there was nothing left to do but pick up the magazine he'd pinched once from Raoul's rooms at the Opera House, just to annoy the self-absorbed fop. And so, holding back a groan of disdain, Erik opened the January edition of _Vanity_ and read the relevant article, found within its _Love and Health_ advice section.

He read:

_The average unmarried female-_

"Well," he muttered inaudibly to himself, "it's at least a third right so far."

_-basically insecure, due to some long frustration may react:_

"Long frustration is right," he breathed, pleased with the information he had found so far.

_With psychosomatic symptoms difficult to endure, affecting the upper respiratory tract._

Erik stood up spontaneously, long black cape knocking a stack of garlic wreaths violently off their position atop a couple of spare xylophones. His face held a look of triumph, as if he was finally getting somewhere with all of this desperate searching. He gestured exultantly with the magazine as he spoke to himself in excited whispers.

"In other words, just from waiting for someone to accept that band of gold, a person can develop a cold!"

He stalked from one side of the room to the other as he continued, his sweeping cloak creating havoc on the many nearby objects.

"You can spray him wherever you figure the streptococci lurk, you can give him a shot for whatever he's got, but it just won't work! If he's tired of getting rejected for some blonde-haired jerk, a person can develop a cold."

Erik stopped in his pacing, the meaning behind his words starting to sink in. All that he had managed to find out from that stupid magazine was that his current cold had no cure. Or at least, no reasonable cure. There was no way that Christine was going to marry him anytime soon, not with that bloody fop around… at least, before his dramatic performance. And so he was stuck with the no voice for _Don Juan_! How on earth was he to act the main character in his _opera_ if he couldn't _sing_?

He sighed in defeat, and sat down dejectedly upon a pile of books, tossing the offending magazine into a nearby stack of incense.

Well, that was it then. There was no way he was going to be able to win back the heart of Chris-

Suddenly, the Phantom's eyes caught on a nearby bundle of roses he had procured from his usual blind florist. The well-oiled cogs in his highly intelligent brain began to spin, faster and faster, and it was with a squeak of "Eureka!" that he rose from the stool this time, hands held before him with new hope.

The opera _was_ called _Don Juan the Silent_ after all… if he made some heavy alterations to the score tonight, while the managers slept, the _Silent_ reference in the title didn't have to just relate to Don Juan's unfortunate habit of silencing people unexpectedly. And the play _was_, after all, Spanish…

A smile began to lift the corners of Erik's lips. Maybe he'd get his fair maiden after all… and then, his voice.

* * *

**A/N: Right then, the point of climax is indeed approaching us. Let me ask you reviewers a little question about the fate of story: I want to know how many of you want the traditional ending, and how many want a slightly… altered conclusion. Also give me any other suggestions you can think of. And a BIG thank you to Mominator for giving me some excellent critique for my last chapter.**

**Now, replies:**

**Spruce Goose Mach 2: Lol, I loved the Frankenstein bit too! I was hoping people would get it and not think I was insane… Truth be told, I watched the black and white movie the day of writing the 6th chapter, so it was stuck in my brain. :)**

**Phantomette of the Opera: Thanks for the great review! I'm seriously surprised at the amount of support I got for Erik's kilt. I didn't know it would be so popular. :) I don't think anyone would suspect it…**

**Irishartemis: Hee hee, thanks. I love Scotland. And Gerard. They kinda go hand in hand, don't they? No need to ask what I was thinking of when I wrote that scene… By the way, have you guys seen the picture of Gerard standing with Ewan MacGregor, both wearing kilts? It's funny. Gerard teamed his with a leather jacket. And the kilt looks more like a skirt I'd wear. :)**

**Fopfighters: I consider anyone who reviews as a friend! It's kinda like you're saying you care for me, or my story, or just for the sake of Phantom humour, and I love that. :) Glad you're enjoying it!**

**WanderingTeen: Feel good, your review made me incredibly happy. :) Oh, and I don't think we'll ever know what was to become of the goat and the lederhosen… which is possibly a good thing. Yay, I have Scottish ancestry too! That makes it okay for us to laugh at such things, doesn't it? ;) Thanks so much!**

**Mominator: Thanks so much for reviewing almost immediately and pointing out the errors. I changed them straight afterwards. Geez, I can't believe I spelt Christine's last name wrong… Lol, I'd happily accept your excuse of Erik being dyslexic, but unfortunately I can't see a genius musical composer, architect and plain old guy-who-wrote-an-opera having difficulty in that area. :) Lol, what does a Frenchman wear under his kilt? I think that's up to your imagination… unfortunately. ;)**

**Thanks guys, now hit that magical button! Don't eat muffins while I'm developing you! -pause- If you didn't get that, watch Black Books now! Or, immediately after reviewing!**


	9. Worries, Flurries and Australia

**A/N: Yes, yes, you will all hate me for the pathetic 'length' of this chapter. But I couldn't just let the story slowly sink with more than a two week gap between chapters! Let me just say that these few paragraphs will very shortly be followed up with an actual, full-length chapter. I really want to make sure that my Don Juan chapter is as good as it can be. Thank goodness for the Easter holidays guys! Just try to bare with me. :)

* * *

**

"Please don't make me do this," Christine begged Raoul desperately. The couple were alone in a quiet little room a little away from the stage, a space for the soprano to prepare herself before her entrance. "I'm afraid of what will happen if I go through with your plan. What about me, Raoul? What about me?"

Raoul calmly looked into Christine's eyes, firmly grasping her shoulders in support, obviously not listening to a single word she was saying.

"Christine, I told you before, your skin tone is too light for a blonde. You may be Swedish, but your looks just don't cut it, girl." He flicked his hair proudly as he spoke, catching an amazing amount of light for such a dull room with the prowess of a well-trained show pony.

Christine sighed loudly. She had given up long ago in their relationship of ever being able to convince Raoul that she didn't actually want to be a blonde. And besides, there were more pressing matters at hand.

"What if he takes me away from you, Raoul? What if I'm trapped in his dark, lonely cavern forever?"

Staring back at Raoul earnestly, the poor girl suddenly realised that the man was humming, humming a catchy little folk tune which was remarkably reminiscent of _Girls Just Wanna Have Fun_. She closed her eyes for a minute, blinked them open, and willed tears to appear in her eyes.

With a dainty sniff, she played her ace (or spade, as Raoul tended to believe.)

"But Raoul… if I was stuck underground for years and years, how would I ever manage to tan my pale skin enough to become a blonde?"

Raoul stiffened immediately and pulled Christine firmly against him with a protective, dramatic flair. "My darling, do not speak of such things! As soon as you have exposed the hideous, unmoisturized monster to the world I will take you far away from this place, to a sunny isle I like to call Australia!"

His cornflower blue eyes misted over as he reflected on the marvels of the strange new land.

Christine gratefully made use of his distraction, and squeezed herself out from his tight embrace. She tiptoed her way over to the room's large window, careful not to disturb Raoul's reverie, and stared longingly out at the crowds of people outside the Opera House, men dressed snugly in coats, women with heavy shawls around their heads, a running child with an oddly-attractive tartan scarf…

She shivered slightly, from the chill of the room, from the awful sound of Raoul's renewed humming, but also from a edgy, excited anticipation for the coming events.

What would happen? What did she want to happen? Where in the world was Australia? Was she to spend her remaining years as the Phantom's lover? Was this such a bad thing after all? Where on earth did he learn to dance so sexily?

As she heard her name being called from outside the room, she shook herself free of the intriguing thoughts. She stood up and walked past the inanimate Raoul and out through the door. The time had come.

* * *

**A/N: Hope the continued fop-bashing isn't getting tired, but I still think it's funny. :) I'll respond to reviews when the next chapter breaks forth!**

**Thanks!**


	10. Don Juan and the Sexy Spanish Dancing

**A/N: Yay! Proper chapter finally out! I'm excited… are you? Now read!

* * *

**

The music from the dimly lit orchestral pit swelled and glided dramatically over the conductor's baton and into the waiting ears of the muttering audience, many of whom had only come thanks to the manager's carefully written tagline of "Come to the opening night or we put Carlotta back on next Tuesday."

There was more than one disapproving glare from the audience as they were assaulted by the unusual, almost improperly-passionate score, and more than a couple of pairs of eyebrows were raised when the chorus swooned onto the stage, dressed in black with fiery detail, makeup heavy and modesty non-existent. La Carlotta was almost unrecognisable, such was the intensity of the visual effect.

From behind the eaves, safety away from the eyes of both waiting cast, stagehands and audience members, Erik chuckled to himself as he recalled an amusing little piece of trouble the Opera Company had had when it was discovered that his magnificent outfit at the Masquerade had leeched all of the available red material from the theatre's stores. Andre and Firmin had been forced to buy costly new cloth for all the members of the chorus.

The monetary situation of the Opera House was growing more and more desperate, it seemed. Between Raoul's incessant wastage of money, be it from destroying priceless vases or buying out cosmetic stores on the theatre's budget, and paying the Phantom his monthly wages, Firmin was barely left with enough money to feed himself, let alone the endless appetites of Carlotta's dogs, and Piangi.

The expensive red material, or lack thereof, had been the last straw. Once they'd finally managed to oust the Opera Ghost, the managers had resignedly agreed that they would have to restart their scrap metal business, starting by cashing in the orchestra's entire brass section.

Monsieur Reyer had not been amused.

Perhaps it was for this reason, rather than what the score specifically requested, that the orchestra was playing so wildly, intensely, and bitterly irately.

Whatever the reason, the freedom of the music and the passion it revelled in pleased Erik greatly, and he closed his eyes, holding an imaginary baton in his hands, conducting his own orchestra.

When Piangi entered the stage from a door in the centre of the background, his black cloak swishing pathetically around his knees, Erik jutted his baton with particular emphasis. When Piangi, aka Don Juan, sang of his improper and lecherous plot to ensnare the young Aminta with his glorious dancing, Erik slowly began to build a crescendo. When Don Juan declared to the enraptured audience that he would not speak a word to the young Aminta, wooing her instead with all the cunning and seduction of a former matador, Erik's baton swept through the air so wildly that he accidentally ripped a heavy pole free from its curtain-supporting position and sent it falling from a height of three metres.

Erik cursed quietly to himself, and peeked out from his position above the stage but behind the curtain, and sighed with relief when he saw that the pole had been safely cushioned by the considerable bulk of Piangi, who had only just left the stage. Erik shrugged and put away his Punjab with a smidgeon of disappointment. It seemed that the most entertaining part of his plan had already inadvertently been carried out.

And so the Phantom leapt down onto the ground beside the unconscious Piangi, stole his swishy cloak and tight Spanish pants, leaving the poor baritone in his underwear and ruffled shirt. Erik had already procured a ruffled shirt from his own wardrobe, but the kilt he had matched with it might have caused a stir on the stage should he have left it on.

The sweet, dulcet voice of Christine's stage voice singing Aminta's innocent part wrenched at the Phantom's heart. How many times had he himself sang that part, deep within his underground lair, yearning for the day when his falsetto would be replaced with the young soprano's voice? He had had to wear some very tight pants on those occasions, much tighter than the nice black trousers he had stolen from Piangi.

As it were, Christine had even had to squeeze herself into a tiny corset for the part, so that she could reach the highest notes that her part dictated. All she had to do was attempt to breathe properly, and the resulting squeaks reached any level of high pitch.

Erik became so interested in Christine's faux see-through corset at this point that he almost missed the timing of his entrance, and it was with an extra, non-deliberate swish of the cloak that he burst onto the stage, imposing and seductive to a tee with his sexy Spanish costume, his slicked back hair and the blood red rose clenched between his teeth…

The audience noted, intrigued, that this highly original deviation of an opera where the main lead did not sing, but danced interpretively in a quasi-Spanish style, was considerably preferable to the ordinary business of long, quavering notes drawn out past their expiration points by fat, pompous little opera singers.

There was a collective gasp of appreciation from the audience at Erik's every daring hip rotation, and some of the older, more proper ladies even fainted. Their stormy husbands didn't bother to wake them, jealous of the seductive man on stage. The younger women in the audience didn't waste their time bothering to faint, too engrossed with the ruffles, the mask, the tight pants…

Christine herself was in no way immune to the heady seduction of Erik's Don Juan, and when it came time for her to sing her part in the strange 'duet', her voice was throaty and low with desire. She deliberately knocked her flimsy sleeves off her creamy shoulders, and would have continued pulling them down, it appeared to a few interested men in the audience (as well as Erik), had her stiff corset not been holding her dress resolutely up.

Erik sweated with the effort of his solitary samba as he whirled across the stage, jaw aching from clenching his teeth together, desperately stopping the rose from slipping, its thorns poking predatorily into the air just below his lips. But the effort was well worth it, watching Christine's face grow steadily redder with excitement, watching La Carlotta with great interest as she gazed open-mouthed at him, thinking that the ultimate seducer on stage was her own dear Piangi.

When the score finally neared the climax of the song, and Christine had bolted her way up the rickety iron staircase, Erik grinned cockily through a mouthful of rose as he contemplated his triumph.

He was indeed a genius. A sexy genius too.

The two of them, a lust-driven Christine and the swaggering Erik, met each other finally in the middle of the narrow platform hanging precariously above the stage, the chorus dancers competing fiercely for second-place in the sexy dancing category as they whirled and thrusted on the stage below, carefully avoiding the flimsy cardboard cut out 'flames' being jiggled by underpaid, overworked stagehands.

One final bar of building music, rising finally to the great crescendo, and Erik grabbed the more-than-willing Christine around the waist, pulling her firmly against him as she sang, and he posed.

The audience sighed approvingly as one.

It was all very dramatic, much more intense than even Erik had imagined, when the music from the enthusiastic orchestra finally died down, and he prepared himself for the make or break of his entire ambition in writing the opera all those months ago. With a final gratuitous whirl of his cloak, he reached behind him to where he had used all the extra pant material Piangi had required for his bulk, and pulled out his ultimate weapon in the war for Christine's heart.

Clasped gently within his cradled arms was the very last vase in the Opera House, the one Raoul had missed on his way to Box Five to watch this very performance.

Christine gasped admiringly and accepted the vase from Erik with tears in her eyes. Inside was a small pile of cigarette ash, a few threatening strands of long blonde hair (presumably belonging to Raoul) and…

A diamond engagement ring!

As Christine lovingly fingered the ornate carvings depicting a pair of angel wings coupled with a plastic halo around the outside of the ring, and read the little inscription within ('You musta fallen from Heaven, baby'), her tears threatened to spill over, and she looked up and into Erik's apprehensive, waiting face.

Ever a girl for tradition, she wanted to hear him speak the words. She had pictured this moment of proposal for months, and she was not going to let this glorious moment pass her by without hearing that all-important question, "Christine, will you marry me?"

It was with a steady hand that Christine reached up to Erik's face, not to rip off his mask or anything remotely so forbidding, but to remove the curious rose from between his teeth.

This small, innocent action surprised the expectant Erik to such an extent that he gasped deeply as she removed the flower. It was this that undid them all.

The pollen from the rose, till now stored discreetly within the velvety petals, was inhaled by the unsuspecting Erik, who immediately sneezed with amazing ferocity. It was such a violent sneeze that the Phantom's mask was forcibly dislodged by the miniature explosion, and when Erik threw up his hands, attempting to catch the falling mask in vain, he accidentally knocked off his wig.

Well, that just about did it, didn't it?

The audience, their emotions having been ripped to shreds by seeing such seductive beauty revert to a terrifying repulsiveness, broke into a fit of terrified screams. Rolling his eyes with extreme annoyance, Erik broke past the surprised Christine and released the chandelier from its secure position above the audience, sending it crashing down towards a suddenly athletic Monsieur Reyer (whom Erik had never really like much anyway.)

Stepping back and clasping a very acquiescent Christine to his side, Erik took the empty vase and chucked it away from the platform. Above them, watching the frenzied action with horrified anger, Raoul ignored the flying vase as it passed within an inch of his nose, possibly attempting to avenge all of its broken brothers and sisters, and didn't even glance down at the resounding smash.

Erik whipped out a knife and cut the rope holding the pair of them above the stage, and they went flying downwards, Christine's skirt whipping up spectacularly, giving all the remaining young men in the audience their money's worth for the excitable evening.

The two managers sat despondently in their little box opposite the effervescently pissed off Raoul.

"We're ruined, aren't we, Andre?" Firmin said sadly, watching as the orchestra pit was engulfed in flames.

"Yep," Andre answered, ducking slightly to avoid a falling audience member.

Even their scrap metal revitalisation idea disappeared in a puff of smoke as the last tuba was swallowed by the merciless flames below them.

* * *

**A/N: Wow, and now the real fun begins! I mean, a scene is coming where Raoul very nearly died in the movie- imagine what I can do! ;)**

**I apologise for what I'm about to do, but I just wanted to get the chapter up, I'm excited. :) So anyway, I'm only going to answer reviews that specifically require answers, but know that I love you all (and that I take all suggestions and comments into mind)! You guys are just too kind. **

**Thanks to Dracina, HeidiHo, fopfighters, Faust, phantomette of the opera, Spruce Goose Mach 2, dancing beauty, river nymph, winnie 1955 (though I can't believe you're a R/C fan ;)), timeisfleeting, starwars-gerikluva (I LURVE your name, and second it), Goldenpuppies at heart, Janxspirit and Erik for President.**

**Mominator: Yes, you picked up on the tartan goodness! Well done! Lol. Maybe I need a spatula myself… And your suggestions of morse code was looked at with interest, but, well… I felt the need for sexy dancing. ;)**

**WanderingTeen: Wow! I now know how to make my face look deformed! Thank you! No seriously, you never know what you'll pick up on the web. ;) I apologise for insulting your moisturised beauty. **

**Thanks guys. Hope you enjoyed this climactic chapter, but there's still more to come…**


	11. Splashing Down Once More

**A/N: The wait is over! Read, and review! **

**AUTHOR RECOMMENDATION: Read HeidiHo's phic "Another Way", a gorgeous story beginning at the point just before that infamous performance of Don Juan (which I destroyed in the previous chapter). Her Erik is noticeably more mature and... stable, if you will, and the story rapidly begins to turn E/C in the early chapters. Enjoy!

* * *

**

Disgruntled is a word which could have described Raoul as he disbelievingly watched his fiancée throw herself at the Phantom during the horrendously passionate performance that night. Disgruntled and bemused.

What on earth did she think she was doing? That hadn't been the plan! The plan had been to dress up a whole lot of his wealthy, foppish friends as heavily-armed policemen, get them a free viewing of the opera and then somehow escape during the night with Christine! It had been fool-proof! And all he had asked Christine to do was retrieve that stolen copy of _Vanity_ he just knew the Phantom had stolen.

His distraught expression hadn't shifted from its specially crafted pout until the Phantom's unexpected unmasking had taken place. Suddenly Raoul's careful exterior fell apart, his eyes bulging, his lips flaring back in utmost horror.

The monster was a blonde!

Raoul clapped his hands to his head in repulsed disbelief, standing spontaneously and gazing out over the heads of the shocked audience, staring at the unchallengeable truth.

"No," he whispered brokenly, "No! It's not true! It's impossible!"

He stared, dumbstruck, as the Phantom cut the chandelier free, ignoring the screams of the terrified audience, ignoring his fiancée and all that her delighted expression revealed, focussing wholly on the whipped up blonde hair that quickly departed the stage along with its owner.

He didn't move from his stunned position until Madame Giry, naively assuming his horror to be based on his concern for the kidnapped Christine, took him forcibly by the ruffles and led him to the beginning of the path to Erik's lair.

* * *

"Keep your hand at the level of your eye," Raoul sang vacuously to himself as he comfortably jogged along, unconsciously imitating that long, beautiful stride that was a prerequisite for the gorgeous young lifesavers on Baywatch. His hair was as blonde as CJ's, his mind as empty, and if short shorts had been available at that time in Paris, Raoul would have been the first in line. Both of his hands were busily occupied with the stubborn clasp of a compact mirror, refusing to open.

So occupied with this troublesome task was Raoul that he passed by several danger signs, cleared more than a couple of metre-high barricades and completely missed the enormous hole in the floor that he promptly fell into.

Raoul squealed effeminately as the floor seemed to disappear beneath him, and he fell through the open trapdoor as gracefully as a terribly ungraceful man could. With a back turn, a half-tuck and a triple twist, Raoul landed heavily on his face, a move which could have turned out to be fatal for the clumsy man, had his fall not been broken by an oddly convenient vat of water.

"What an oddly convenient vat of water!" Raoul remarked blatantly once he had resurfaced and brought up a couple of fish.

Once mostly recovered, the man lay back for a few minutes and relaxed, floating on his back, doing a little breaststroke, all those things he'd been too busy to do during those long winter months. The urgency of rescuing Christine sank quickly to the bottom of his mind, in a similar way to how his compact mirror sank quickly to the bottom of the murky water.

It was only when coming up from a particularly satisfactory hand stand that Raoul's serenity disappeared completely, leaving as swiftly as his masculinity had upon reaching puberty. His boots! His brand new, designer, suede boots- ruined!

"They said that they were water-proof!" Raoul whispered brokenly in anguish. He grabbed one shoe, kicking an odd little lever in the process, and looked at the label on the bottom, which infuriatingly enough read: _Water-resistant. Made in China._

"Blast it!" he yelled furiously, before squealing in dismay as he looked up in exasperation and caught sight of the rapidly approaching metal bars, heavy chains creaking and rattling as the horizontal cage lowered ominously.

"Must be Monday," he muttered irritably, then hurriedly looked around the bottom of the cage for some kind of anti-lever. He had no ambition to stay down there under the water for the rest of his life- he hadn't liked mermaids since he was thirteen. Though they did seem to have such gorgeous hair…

Whistling _Under the Sea_ somewhat unfittingly, Raoul searched desperately around the area for an off-switch. Finally, six minutes later, just when he was getting really anxious, (the iron bars were approaching at approximately twenty centimetres per minute) his sharp eyes caught on three very reassuring words above an odd metal wheel stuck into the wall below the water level.

_Phantom's Use Only._

"Ah ha!" he exclaimed triumphantly, and, rolling his sleeves up to his elbows, he flipped himself down into the water, showy as a dolphin, and grabbed onto the wheel, bracing himself against the wall with his ruined suede boots.

Those tanned, muscular arms, so useful in the art of showing-off, so convenient for displaying through thin white ruffled shirts, were of absolutely no use to Raoul when it came to turning things. Viscomtes didn't need to open their own pickle jars, or lift refrigerators off old ladies. They had wives for those things! (Or at least fiancées.)

What on earth was he to do? Was this the end of the fop?

What saved Raoul in the end was his compact mirror. The mirror, fed up with the utterly stupid nature of its master, had thought itself miraculously free when released by the man upon his untimely fall. It hadn't even been broken on its perilous journey to the bottom of the water-filled pit.

Lying open, its reflective surface facing down, rubbing against the smooth stone of the floor as if kissing the ground with relief, it made a very useful skateboard when the ungainly Raoul, frustrated by his lack of success in turning the metal wheel, stamped his foot. Stamping your foot while practically blind deep underwater is never generally the best solution to a problem, but that shows how little logic knows.

Raoul's almost new, now water-logged, left suede boot made a most satisfying crunching sensation as it connected with the metal of the compact, sliding forward, the grip failing completely, causing Raoul to grab onto the wheel for support as he slipped helplessly forward. As his legs shot underneath him, the wheel miraculously began to turn.

"Ah yes, that was it!" Raoul gurgled, suddenly enlightened. "Righty-tighty, lefty-loose-y!"

The mirror was almost glad it was completely destroyed at that point.

Now that the wheel had been turned most satisfactorily, the steadily lowering iron bars began to steadily rise, and Raoul gratefully pulled himself up and out of the chilly water as soon as he had completed just a couple more laps.

Flicking the water out of his hair in a way akin to the vigorous shaking of some long-haired mutt, Raoul kicked his destroyed shoes off, gave them a very un-Viscomte-like finger, and continued jogging happily down the dark, shadowy, rapidly becoming damper corridor.

* * *

As soon as their feet made contact with the ground below beneath the thankfully open trapdoor, Christine pushed herself away from Erik, ignoring the massive jolt of pain as her knees reluctantly accepted the pressure, focussing wholly on shoving the golden ring past her second knuckle on her ring finger. She gave a small, triumphant exclamation, and held her hand up to the dim light, watching it sparkle.

Erik, unsurprisingly, was quite pleased. But nothing was going to stop him from taking Christine safely to his lair, and if she wanted to waste time admiring her ring, he was going to have to drag her down there by force.

He grabbed her unceremoniously around her narrow wrist and pulled, leading her stumbling down the passageway towards his lair.

"Where on earth are we going, my darling?" Christine exclaimed curiously, far too happy to care about his violent forcefulness. If she did happen to consider Erik's dynamic power over her, it only served to further her happiness.

Erik swore silently to himself. What was he to tell her? And how? Chancing his freakishly good luck apprehensively, he cleared his murky throat once, twice and then opened his mouth, turning back slightly to face Christine just in case all he could manage was a whisper. The poor man was concentrating so hard on properly vibrating his larynx that the moment before he forced air past his unwilling voice box, he tripped backwards over an abandoned poodle, and landed heavily on his backside, pulling Christine immediately on top of him.

"I see," Christine said knowingly, smiling a seductive smile. Sure, his moves weren't as sexily smooth as she had come to expect from this connoisseur of desire, but she really didn't give a damn right then.

The poodle yapped in protest.

Erik cursed, gently pulling an upset, reluctant Christine off him, and climbed to his feet with difficulty (struggling to keep his suddenly baggy Don Juan pants above his waist), extending a gloved hand down to help Christine get up. He froze midway through helping the poor girl up, releasing his grip on her hand in an altogether badly-planned out move. Christine fell heavily back on top of the indignant poodle, and Erik clapped his hand to his throat.

His voice! Could it be? Was it finally back once more? The fop's magazine had spoken the truth!

Erik grinned self-importantly, placing his hands triumphantly on his hips, before suddenly remembering the now resentful Christine and grabbing her from the floor joyfully, swinging her up and around in the air. The young soprano had no idea what in the world was going through her odd captor's brain, but she did manage to kick the irritating poodle aside on one of her airborne rotations.

Erik coughed once more, looked directly into Christine's eyes, mistook her mild exasperation for loathing, and began pulling her back down the cold, dark passageway. He opened his mouth, avoided the bedraggled poodle and miraculously, just like that, felt his voice gloriously returning (albeit croakily.)

"Down once more- _cough_- to the- _splutter_- dungeons of my black despair, down we plunge to the- _HACK_- prison- _gasp_- of my mind! Down that path- _cough­_- into darkness deep as-" Erik took a deep, rattling breath, "Heeeeeeell!"

They had arrived in the entrance to the Phantom's lair, but all that Christine saw as she stood there, rubbing her wrist, was the pitiful form of her beloved Erik bending over, succumbing to a painful fit of coughing. She stepped closer to his doubled over form, and lovingly whacked him repeatedly on the back.

She had no idea what had happened to the ultimate seducer she had always known Erik to be. Since the performance of Don Juan he had been clumsy, and now! Now, when he sang to her, no less, his voice was one shaky, horrible mess! It was like being deceived all over again by this supposed angel!

And still she wanted him.

As soon as he had pushed up from the level of his knees, and stood upright, shaking slightly, he opened his mouth once more, apparently to attempt to continue his rambling speech. Christine rolled her eyes, clapped her hand over his mouth, and decided to skip ahead, for the sake of them both.

"Have you exhausted yourself at last in your fits of coughing? Am I now to be prey to your lust for flesh?" Christine's tone held more than a little wheedling, and she tossed her hair endearingly.

Erik didn't seem to understand her motives, and pulled away angrily from her controlling grasp. "That fate which condemns- _sneeze_- me to cough my lungs out has also- _splutter_- denied me the joys of the- _wheeze_- flesh."

Christine placed her hands on her hips, frustrated and not a little put out. What kind of a man was her angel, to refuse to acknowledge such blatant suggestions?

Seemingly ignoring the disgruntled Christine, Erik continued, absorbed in his own self-pity, regularly interrupted with bouts of insistent coughing. "This face, and the infection, they poison our love! This face which earned a mother's fear and loathing; this cold which came from wearing badly chosen clothing. Pity comes too late! Turn around and face your fate: an eternity of this before your eyes!"

Undone by these last few hoarse declarations, Erik massaged his throat gingerly. By this time Christine was even more annoyed by her companion's single-mindedness, and stamped her foot angrily, wanting Erik to pay more attention to her needs.

"This rugged face holds no horror for me now. It's in your voice that the true distortion lies!"

There was no knowing what Erik might have done upon hearing that almost sacrilegious statement leave the obdurate Christine's lips, had they not otherwise been distracted by the sudden appearance of a dripping, shoeless Raoul.

* * *

**A/N: I know, I know! The fop remains alive! What a disappointment. But don't you worry, I have something better planned for him… something –much- more suitable. Heh heh. **

**So, did you like this chapter? It was actually quite difficult to write, so I'm hoping the writing doesn't reflect the strain. :) Note the length of the chapter. –bows- I am very proud of myself. Next time I will definitely try to shorten the massive gap between chapters.**

**I apologise, but if I want to put this chapter up before going to tennis in ten minutes I'm gonna have to skimp on the review replies, but a very big thanks to:**

**fopfighters (for the witty comments)**

**Mominator (with the words of wisdom as to the fate of the brass section, and the very funny gypsy carnival revelation)**

**HeidiHo (for the recognition of a sexy, hilarious new genre)**

**MadBrilliant (for being madly brilliant as well as amazingly encouraging and for liking Buffy)**

**Evelyn Stone (for obsessing about my story and threatening to hit me with a rock- and for being my number 1 fan)**

**Wandering Teen (for making a thrusty dancing Phantom at school- hey, there's nothing better to learn at high school, and for being great as usual)**

**Dracina (for wanting to kill the fop… I'm sorry, but something better's coming) **

**MusicalAngel '74 (for the smashing review. Hee. Smashing. Bongo drums. I think I need to lie back down in my cage for a while…)**

**Thanks very much guys! Please review for me, the salivating author!**

**-sings- "Review, for me! Review, my angels!"**

**You guys: "Ooooooooooookay! Ooooooookay!"**

**I severely hope you realise that I'm trying to imitate that part at the end of the Phantom of the Opera song. If not… you know now.**

**Keep on a'rockin,**

**Fiona**


	12. C'mon Ghosty

**A/N: Yes, it has been a while, hasn't it? I apologise, and would like to add that should any reader happen to have studied four science subjects, French and English in the later years of high school, please sympathise.**

**This chapter is short but sweet, with a song cameo from four delightful Swedish singers of the 70s. Enjoy!

* * *

**

So angered was Erik by the sudden appearance of the fop that words simply failed him. Again. All he could physically do was watch bitterly as Raoul jangled the chains on his barred gate, demanding to be let inside. So deeply depressed by his utter inability to crow over his victory, he collapsed wearily on a nearby organ stool and began to massage his temples.

Christine was torn. Which was the worse fate she must face? To completely ruin this gorgeous white dress she'd found on a hanger in the adjacent room and slipped on while Erik and Raoul glowered at each other, or to miss out on an opportunity to bitch slap her ex-fiancée once and for all? In an altogether inexplicably pointless move, she took a few tentative steps forward into the icy chill, almost but not entirely saving the delicate hemline of her dress from muddy destruction.

Raoul began to tire of making the little chains dingle out the Marseilles after a couple of minutes and started yelling some very obscene, unfoppish-like threats into the cavern at the Phantom, who very deliberately ignored them. It was when the hideous strains of song began to whine their way through the bars that Erik could no longer stand it, and he clambered to his feet violently, stalking over to where Christine stood partially submerged.

He grabbed her around the waist possessively, pulling her to him in a move which left little to interpret. Yes, it seemed like Erik had at last resorted to that final masculine tactic: caveman gestures.

It was a pity, then, that Raoul was far too busy yodelling to open his eyes and see such a blatant display of ownership. Christine and Erik both winced simultaneously as the wild yodelling fell into an upbeat, piercing croon.

"Release Christine! She's young and sweet, only seventeen! Free Christine! C'mon Opera Ghost, don't be mean! Oooh yeah!"

"He can't dance; he must die," Christine muttered ominously to herself as her eyes narrowed and the corner of her mouth slowly began to twitch.

"I'm gonna string up that guy," Erik whispered hoarsely, and grimly started to wade through the murky water towards the otherwise distracted Raoul, who seemed to be channelling the Britney Spears of 19th century Paris.

"Ooooh, she's my girl! Free Christine! Ghosty, don't be me-"

Raoul's voice was strangled off mid-sentence as he suddenly found a noose fixed firmly around his neck, finally snapping his eyes open and staring directly into the incensed pupils of his afore-mentioned 'Ghosty'.

"Ghosty?" he squeaked petulantly as the rope tightened very deliberately.

"If you dare to insult me once more with that repugnant name, I swear I will be even less willing to share such a length of my rope," Erik growled as violently as he could in a whisper.

Raoul gulped audibly and snapped his mouth shut. Christine clapped wholeheartedly. Erik closed his eyes momentarily in thankful appreciation. He blinked slowly open and focussed his intense glare upon the much affrighted fop, who was only hanging on to dear oxygen (and life) through a fortunate ability to balance delicately on his toes, a skill following his many years wearing highly fashionable heeled boots.

"Now, where was I?" he hissed coolly, considering what would be his next, altogether satisfying action.

"Say, what's wrong with your voice?" came the distinct sound of Raoul's voice from slightly above the Phantom's head, blatant curiosity overcoming whatever sense the fop may have had.

Erik clenched his fists tightly around the coarse length of rope, gritting his teeth. Christine's voice glided over to the pair from where she stood, a metre or so from shore, and casually answered the question.

"I do believe he's gone and lost it, poor thing!"

Raoul clucked his tongue and jolted his head up and down in a semblance of a knowing nod. "Ah yes. What a thing to happen. Poor man."

"Enough!" Erik squeaked ferociously. Not only was this proving a most infuriating situation, but his muscular triceps were beginning to shake slightly as he held up the dampened-down fop, the chains Raoul was still holding, and the special nine carot gold, glow-in-the-dark, ruby-encrusted, luckily waterproof, fourteen pound hair brush that happened to be securely tied to his ankle in case of emergencies.

"Are you quite finished?" the Phantom whispered heatedly, giving an extra little pull at Raoul's rope in case the fop didn't quite get the picture.

"Pardon?" Raoul asked innocently.

"I said," Erik repeated, the pitch of his squeaking raising a little in anger, "Are you qui-"

"Excuse me?"

This time it was Christine's voice that echoed through the cavern and caused the poor Phantom's eyes to close with despair, to even release the pressure on Raoul's noose a little. Could this have happened at a less appropriate time?

As clearly as he could, Erik opened his mouth, breathed in deeply, and before he could so much as exhale, Raoul interrupted.

"Sorry, what was that?"

Erik released the rope entirely in agitation at the futility of it all, and stood there, waist-deep in water, entirely prepared and raring to start throwing a colossal tantrum. He threw his arms up in the air and screwed up his face and was about to start shouting as loudly as he possibly could without a voice when once again Raoul's voice interrupted, highly excited this time.

"Oh! I know! Pocahontas!"

Erik stopped dead and painstakingly slowly, began to turn towards Raoul in utter disbelief. Surely he could not have just heard what he thought he'd heard.

"Oh! Is this charades then?" Christine joined in, clapping and squealing a little in anticipation. She rushed forward a few metres towards the other two men without thinking, and stopped short when she suddenly realised that the ends of her hair had somehow netted at least two fish and a yabby. She released the fish with considerable distaste, sticking the yabby in the top of her corset 'for later'.

Erik stood there, his arms still raised, his face now the picture of incredulity. He looked quite as stunned as the poor mullet Christine had just recently netted. But quickly, as his addled brain began to accept the bizarre conclusion drawn by the remarkably oblivious fop, he realised how such a situation could be used to his advantage.

He slowly shook his head, and a hint of a malicious smile appeared on his distorted visage. He cracked his knuckles and adjusted his weight in an entirely riveting fashion, every movement slow and calm, purposely building the anticipation in the room.

Raoul bounced from heel to toe several times in excitement, too enthralled to realise that he was still in mortal peril (and that the danger only grew with every irritating clap of his smooth, effeminate fingers.)

Erik closed his eyes and slowly exhaled. Christine squeezed murky water out of her hair in long streams with breathless anticipation.

The chapter ended; only a cliffhanger remained.

* * *

**A/N: I am cruel, aren't I? I would have continued, but I sense a growing anger at the vast space of time between updates for this story. I'll just reply to a few questions:**

**Mominator: Ugh! The Phantom is not Raoul's father! The thought is quite terrible… :) Though they do both have suspiciously similar lengthy blonde hair… **

**Faust: To answer your questions I would read the last couple of chapters. The copy of _Vanity_ was mentioned in Erik's Lament- actually, you've probably skipped that chapter, since I think most of what you're wondering about is explained there.**

**Thanks for reading, and remember: although I love all my readers, there is a special place in Erik's heart for those who review. Particularly the ones with kilts, or vague Scottish lines of descent. **

**-Froody**


	13. A Hairy End!

**A/N: Never fear! The suspense is over! Read on, fair readers, for the end is nigh…**

* * *

The demasked Phantom opened his eyes so painstakingly slowly that his eyeballs started to dry up. This would normally have proven most irritating to Erik, but he lived to cause Raoul discomfort, and the fop's current impatient jiggling was bringing him closer and closer to a sudden end, the ropes tying him to the gate beginning to threaten strangulation. From nowhere, Christine had grabbed a dusty set of bongo drums, and was attempting to perform a drum roll without damaging her manicure.

Erik cleared his throat, assumed the neutral position, shook out his fingers, and then brought one steady index into the glowing candlelight.

"One word!" Raoul bellowed, proving himself more intelligent in Christine's mind than she had previously given him credit for.

Erik nodded curtly, then cupped his black gloved hand to his ear.

"Sounds like…" Christine said breathlessly, earning a covetous glare from Raoul.

This was the part the Phantom had been looking forward to. He splashed forward a few steps closer to Raoul, who looked delighted at this apparent advantage he was being given over Christine, and the Viscomte didn't even flinch as Erik picked up the heavy rope, twirling it a little in his fingers, obviously savouring the feel. With one violent heave, Erik successfully conveyed his next clue to the waiting Christine. Once Raoul had recovered, he burst into infuriated tears.

"Choke," Christine said with a tender smile. "Sounds like 'choke.'"

Erik nodded with satisfaction, then waded back out to the shore, where he fumbled around for a little while amongst chests of manuscripts and piles of candles before pulling out a long, black piece of material, known extremely well to all of our readers, particularly those interested in vampires.

Slowly he turned to face the eager pair.

Raoul squeaked, quivering with excitement, his tears forgotten.

With one glorious swish, Erik swept the material around his shoulders, and stood there, posing. Raoul was momentarily distracted by the odd fashion statement the Phantom seemed to be making. The aura of mystery and seduction that had formally surrounded the masked Opera Ghost had disappeared along with his wig, and the black cape seemed to contradict this newly vulnerable man. Was this a deliberate attempt at revealing the two sides of a damaged psyche that this one person fought to control within his deepest core?

"Cloak!" Christine yelled, chucking the bongo drums aside and performing a modest, gracious victory dance.

The smile on Erik's face dampened considerably, a fact that Raoul failed to miss as he submitted to the shock of losing his favourite game. Christine however, ignoring the strangled moans from behind her, stopped her high kicks and stared questioningly at her beloved's less than happy expression. Suddenly she understood, and her shoulders straightened resolutely as she turned to face the writhing fop.

"You can do it," she said brusquely, the resentful air barely evident in her tone. Raoul froze, and turned his tear-streaked face towards her in seeming disbelief.

"I… can do it?" he asked dumbly, scarcely able to believe his luck.

"Just do it!" Christine snapped, and jutted out her lower lip in disappointment as Raoul began to lighten up like a Christmas tree in a fireplace. The pout disappeared quickly as soon as strong arms began to wrap around her from behind, Erik having abandoned the cloak and slid back through the mud to his love. She turned to face him with a pretty smile upon her lips, the passionate intensity of his eyes almost serving to block out the excited mutterings of an oblivious Raoul behind them.

"Oh, what should I do? Should I- no, that's too easy. Oh- how about a cl- no, you already did that. Say, how about a…"

Erik gazed down at Christine, looking through the scary layers of her stage makeup and into the warmth of her beautiful smile. If she could see through his deformed visage, well, to hell with it, he could ignore her curious penchant for coats of dark eyeshadow.

"You don't happen to have kept those plastic wings and the halo, have you?" Christine asked quietly, averting her eyes coyly and fluttering her lashes. "I think Raoul could have use for them before the night is through."

Erik laughed incredulously. "You don't mean to tell me, my dear, that you have only now discovered the true extent of your Viscomte's irritating presence after this hasty game of charades?" he whispered, smiling.

"Why did you make me give up my turn, anyway?" Christine asked grumpily. "I was going to portray a haircut, using the blondest supply available."

"I would have paid to watch that," Erik sighed regretfully, then gazed back down to the petulant Christine. "You can tell Raoul is not entirely one to keep it short, _ma chérie_. I thought we could use a little time to talk. Or whisper, in any case," he muttered with considerably irritation.

Christine smiled adorably, and had just stretched upwards on her tip-toes for a long-awaited kiss when suddenly-

"I've got it!" Raoul shouted excitably from behind them. "Yoo-hoo, you're not looking at me!" The fop attempted to wave his arms around to attract their attention, an action which not only served to further tighten the rope around his neck (which would have been absolutely fine with both Erik and Christine) but also to cause a rather distracting squeaking of the metal gate he was attached to.

"It's my favourite 80s band," he stated proudly, seeming to have forgotten the historical, iron rules of the silent game. After attempting for a good few minutes to bring his hands down to his face, Raoul gaped upwards, and started with shock as he seemed to realise for the first time that he was shackled to the gate. "But- how am I supposed to play now?" The poor, bewildered fop looked over to his oblivious companions for an answer, but it appeared that the muddy couple had not been bothered listening to the Viscomte's woes, and Raoul drew a ragged gasp as he saw them, attached firmly at the mouth.

"How- how could you- how could you have guessed already!" he yelled at them in disbelief, his face beginning to turn red in a motley mix of anger and confusion. "That's not fair! That's just not fair!" Raoul splashed and pulled, determined to be heard, to demand justice- but the couple were completely immersed in each other. Redder and redder the fop turned, and his voice became squeakier and squeakier with indignation, and hair grew where there had been no hair before, and before the poor, unsuspecting reader knew it, he successfully removed himself from the ropes, and started doggy-paddling towards Erik and Christine.

It was not possible to distinguish whose eyes bulged more prominently as the Phantom and his bridal companion stared open-mouthed towards the very much changéd Raoul. It was safe to suggest that they had both been sufficiently shocked when the ropes rattled loosely against the iron gate to break apart. When the lustrous, flaxen waves of Raoul's hair were not immediately obvious to either, they each stepped backwards a little towards the shore. Christine had clutched her hand to her chest as a rapid panting filled the air; the distortion of Erik's face had only stretched when his mouth fell open at the sight of a cute little pink jacket.

The Viscomte de Chagny, a Pomeranian?

The silky little thing held its nose haughtily in the air as it splashed its way friskily towards the dumbstruck pair. The little golden bell on its prettily studded collar jingled merrily as his paws worked tirelessly. Its fitted pink jacket clashed very fashionably with its auburn coat, and though the Pom was not a blonde, it obviously expected just as much grooming.

"Well," Erik said finally, eyes still fixed dumbly on the doggy. "I don't think any of us were expecting that."

"Your voice- it's back!" Christine said numbly, tearing, with difficulty, her eyes from the astonishing sight.

"Well, so it is!" Erik said with considerable satisfaction, a warm feeling beginning to raise the corners of his mouth into a broad smile. Could this day get much better?

As the Pom grew closer and closer to Christine, she clutched her hands to her chest and folded, unable to resist that womanly urge to fawn over a gorgeous doggy. "Aw! Hello, my widdle puppy! Who's a cute doggy then?"

As Erik sighed with irritation, holding his hand wearily to his eyes, Christine bent down and scooped the Pomeranian right out of the water. Maybe the fop hadn't been as amazingly stupid as he'd looked.

Suddenly Christine sneezed, the ears of the dog-shaped Raoul blown flat against his silky head. Erik rushed over and snatched the Pom right out of her adoring fingers.

"You must be allergic," he said with a slight grin, relief filling him with that lovely sense of optimism again. He had begun to become a little afraid that the Viscomte would earn himself a place in Christine's heart for the rest of their lives. Without further consideration, he threw the unsuspecting dog over his shoulder. The dog gave a startled squeak, landing with a splash several metres from them.

"That's better," he said, brushing his hands together. Behind him, the Pom suddenly disappeared from the surface without warning, pulled under by something… or someone…

Christine gazed over Erik's shoulders with a reproachful look on her face, watching as a few lonely bubbles made their way to the now-empty place the dog had previously occupied.

"Don't worry, my dear," Erik drawled, utterly proud of his actions. "I'm sure that was probably a better fate than what lay in wait for him in Carlotta's poodles."

"Whatever was that?" Christine asked warily, still eyeing the water as the last bubble popped.

"You didn't think that I would have no protection for my lair in this convenient lake, did you?"

Christine cast her gaze back on the confident man before her. "Well, from the way you were standing in it waist deep before…"

Erik's demeanour changed visibly at her words, and he quickly (though still trying to maintain a suave appearance) side-stepped would-be casually out of the two inches of water he was standing in. He grabbed Christine's arm and pulled her roughly out of the water, suddenly looking at the murky depths of his lake with a vague air of dread.

"As it were…" he began, obviously trying to cover his lack of foresight, but stopped as Christine laid her hand on his gesturing arm with a gentle smile on her face. She started to speak, but screwed up her face a little as she roughly cleared her throat instead.

Erik brought his hand to the side of her face, gazing at her with understanding, and, holding her about the waist, brought his lips down upon hers when suddenly-

"Wah-CHOO!"

Erik leapt away a little as the miniature explosion from Christine released a startlingly loud noise, and other, less clear, substances. She sniffed, wiping her nose on the back of her hand, with a look of considerable dismay on her face.

"Oh dear," she said, her nasal cavities noticeably blocked. "I bust be cobing dowd with sub sort of cold!"

Erik smiled with some secret satisfaction, and gazed meditatively across the lake.

"Really, my dear? I feel fine."

* * *

_Fin_

* * *

**A/N: IT'S OVER! What a strange and bizarre path this story has taken us along! My disposal of Raoul was at best insane, and at worst… well, insane, but I enjoyed it. :) There were just some unmistakable parallels, and I can't resist temptation… as those of you in kilts right now would understand.**

**Hope you enjoyed it, and laughed a little during the way- and if you feel so inclined, I'm actually currently writing an E/C phic called "All For Her", so head on over and read that!**

**I appreciate all the (over one hundred!) reviews I've had for this story. Thank you very much! Here's just one last crack at responding to you lovely people:**

**Estelle Rabon: Yay the 100th review! I'm so glad you liked the story so much- though I think I may have upturned the whole 'comedy doesn't have to be entirely random' thing with the Pom business. But hey. :) Thanks very much!**

**Mominator: I love ABBA too! Wow, there's some thing going on with the whole phans who also love star wars and abba phenomena… :) And at least I didn't say 'carrot' instead of 'karat'- though I have some idea I was sorely tempted to. A yabby- well I didn't think it was purely Aussie, but hey- is a small lobstery thing, but lives in muddy dams and is a gross scary brown colour. Oh, and any connection to Scotland is enough for our kilt-lovin' fiend. :) Thanks for all the great reviews you've given for this story from chapter one!**

**MadBrilliant: Uh oh, I'm faced with complete and utter hatred… c'mon, I don't generally use cliffhangers! And at least I've resolved it now! Oh, and don't worry, I used this chapter as a distraction from exam cramming. Lol, thank you, glad you enjoyed!**

**PhantomBecca: Christine's hair is amazingly talented- but could never compete with the utter awesomeness of Erik's kilt. I'm sorry Erik didn't do another little dance for you, but I figured that between the charades and the doggy, there really wasn't much more craziness you readers could stand. Thanks for your reviews!**

**StarrySpark: Lol, I liked the yabby too… too bad he didn't make another little cameo in this chapter:) It must be getting pretty uncomfortable in Christine's corset… Thanks for all your wonderful reviews!**

**Fopfighters: Everything you have to say is of interest to me! Think about it- you read all these insane ramblings for months… I know you were one of the first reviewers for this story, so big thanks!**

**WanderingTeen: Another oldie! That sounds a little strange… but nevertheless, you reviewed from the first chapter! I'm glad you've enjoyed it so much- thanks very much!**

**HeidiHo: I have to remember to send you the full copy… through email? In word documents? Thanks for your reviews, they're truly appreciated. :)**

**And thanks to everyone else who ever reviewed or just read this story- you guys make me smile. :) See?**

**Cheers!**

**Froody**


End file.
